UC-NRLF 


. 


THE   PASSING  GOD 

SONGS  FOR    LOVERS 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  HARRT  KEMP 

THE  CRY  OF  YOUTH.    Verses  (KENNERLY) 
JUDAS.    A  Play  (KENNERLY) 
JOHN  MERLIN,  POET.     Forthcoming  Autobio- 
graphic Novel  (BoNi  &  LIVERIGHT) 


THE  PASSING  GOD 

SONGS  FOR  LOVERS 


BY 

HARRY  KEMP 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CRY  OF  YOUTH,"  "JUDAS,"  ETC. 
With  Introduction  by 

RICHARD  LEGALLIENNE 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHTED,     I  9  I  9,     BY    BRENTANOS 


THE-PLIMPTON-PHESS 
NOKWOOD-MA  SS-U-S-A 


THIS   BOOK   I   DEDICATE 
TO 

MARY  PYNE 


A  /f  or:  r 


IN 


bringing  out  these  poems  in  book-form, 
acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  following 
magazines:  McClure's,  The  Cosmopolitan, 
House  and  Garden,  The  Century,  The  Pictorial 
Review,  Munsey's,  The  Smart  Set,  Ainslee's, 
Smith's,  The  Masses,  The  Parisienne,  Snappy 
Stories,  Breezy  Stories,  Live  Stories,  The  New 
Review,  and  The  Quill;  and,  in  England,  The 
Daily  Citizen. 


LOVE'S  DEMOCRACY 


INHERE  is  only  one  thing 
That  Slave  and  King 
Share,  beside  Breath 
And  a  Common  Death  — 
Love,  that  comes 
With  banners  and  drums,  — 
Love,  that  goes 
As  the  wind  blows! 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


--Love's  Democracy 9 

Cresseid  25 

Helen  in  Hades 55 

Cleopatra,  Dead 56 

Zenobia 57 

Resurrection  58 

The  Emperor  to  His  Love 59 

A  Memory  of  a  Former  Life 60 

The  Song  of  Rensi,  Pharaoh's  Lute-player  ....  61 

Villon  Sings 62 

Invocation 63 

Love  in  Hell 64 

There  are  Two  Powers 65 

The  Few 66 

-The  Wise  Man  Said 67 

At  Last  I  Know  — 68 

The  Passing  God 69 

f  The  Way 7° 

,  The  Red  Rose  Cried 71 

The  Passing  Flower 72 

Eros  Sings  73 

*  Innumerability 74 


CONTENTS 

Old-fashioned  Flower-song 75 

Mad-Men 76 

-Purity 77 

Young  Man's  Song 78 

When  Silent  is  the  Singer 79 

A  Cruel  Thing 80 

Why  Should  I  Listen? 81 

Greek  Vintage  Song 82 

Admonition  83 

The  Reason 84 

To  Think  That  Somewhere 85 

And  Is  It  True?  86 

A  Queen  Died,  Long  Ago 87 

Hermitage 88 

To  Myrrha 89 

To 90 

Little  Things 91 

The  Life  of  Love 92 

No  Qualms  . 93 

j^You  Love  Me  and  I  Am  Afraid 94 

Nightmare 95 

Why  Have  You  Come  to  Me? 96 

The  Moth's  Complaint [97 

Old  Song  98 

Passion 99 

Consummation 100 

Possession 101 


CONTENTS 

O,  Tell  Me  Not 102 

A  Dream  of  Inconstancy 103 

When  That  Which  Could  Not  Be 104 

On  Thoughts  of  Suicide 105 

Retaliation 106 

Variety 107 

Fantasia 108 

You 109 

Me 1 10 

The  Wind's  Death in 

Love-faith 112 

Defeat 113 

(  Alienation 114 

I  Thought  That  It  Would  Never  Cease  ....  115 

i-Tfie  Return 1 16 

Why  Should_We  Strive? 117 

The  Irony 118 

To  Atthis 119 

The  Rainbow 120 

*^fhe  Puzzle 121 

The  Lesson  "...:...  122 

I  Promised  In  My  Passion 123 

-  Folly 124 

Sun  and  Rain  125 

-"Heart-break 126 

Deluded 127 

Adjuration 128 


CONTENTS 

The  Guestless  Room  129 

In  Love  Again 130 

Dialogue 131 

Without  Inconstancy 132 

I  Held  Love  Usual 133 

The  Protean  Heart 134 

MLove  Pays - 135 

The  Wheel 136 

Ignorance 137 

What  Else  to  Do? 138 

The  Mistake 139 

The  Ghost 140 

Haunted 141 

Adam,  to  Eve 142 

Your  Absence  143 

Your  Handkerchief 144 

t-^Ffie  Tryst 145 

Dreams 146 

The  Lover's  Lie  147 

Strange 148 

The  Leafless  Bough 149 

Dissipation 150 

;  The  Fountain  151 

When  I  Am  Dead 152 

A  Chant  of  Dead  Lovers 153 

No  Refuge 154 

The  Mirrored  Venus  155 


A  COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS  TO 
THE  GENTLE  READER 

I  CANNOT  say  whether  or  not  Mr.  Kemp  has 
ever  held  up  a  train  —  though  I  should  be  very 
disappointed  to  learn  authoratively  that  he  has 
not.  He  has  done  so  many  arduous  adventurous 
things  of  the  kind  —  things  that  some  of  us  dream 
of  all  our  lives  —  that  it  must  be  merely  an  ac- 
cident if  he  has  not  been  a  train-robber  as  well. 
I  have  met  many  poets,  but  never,  so  far  as  I 
know,  a  train-robber;  and  I  would  gladly  ex- 
change a  baker 's  dozen  of  poets  for  one  train- 
robber.  A  train-robber  and  a  poet  combined 
would,  it  seems  to  me,  be  something  like  a  com- 
plete man.  However,  as  I  have  said,  Mr.  Kemp, 
in  his  many  manly  activities,  has  come  so  near  to 
my  dream,  that  he  quite  sufficiently  fills  the  bill. 

The  adventure  by  which  he  first  caught  the 
shaggy  ear  of  the  public  was  one  of  the  most 
satisfying  ever  recorded  of  a  poet.  Several  years 
ago,  as  his  readers  will  recall,  he  stowed  away  on 
a  vessel  sailing  to  England.  When,  a  day  or  two 
out  at  sea,  he  was  brought  up  before  the  captain, 
after  true  stowaway  procedure,  he  gave  the 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

unique  excuse  for  his  misdemeanor  that  he  was 
a  poet,  anxious  to  visit  the  shrines  of  English 
poets  dead  and  gone,  but  too  poor  to  pay  the 
passage  for  such  a  pilgrimage.  The  very  origi- 
nality of  his  plea  seems  to  have  won  him  un- 
accustomed consideration,  and,  as  he  was  a 
stalwart  man  of  his  hands  there  was  no  difficulty 
in  making  him  a  useful  member  of  the  crew. 
For  him  to  "work  his  passage"  was  mere 
child's-play,  just  an  additional  part  of  the  fun. 
His  pluck  won  sympathy  for  his  plight,  and, 
though,  on  landing,  it  was  impossible  to  save 
him  altogether  from  a  week  or  two  in  an  English 
jail  (to  him  merely  another  amusing  detail),  the 
spirit  of  his  adventure  seems  to  have  appealed  to 
the  English  magistracy,  and  he  was  eventually 
allowed  to  go  his  way,  and  fulfil  his  boyhood's 
dream  of  visiting  Westminster  Abbey,  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  the  Boar's  Head  in  East-Cheap,  "The 
Cheshire  Cheese,"  and  other  such  places  sacred 
to  the  memory  of  that  robust  breed  of  English 
singers  of  the  tribe  of  which  he  is  authentically 
sealed. 

Even  had  he  been  less  real  a  poet  than  he  is, 
that  adventure  must  still  have  won  our  hearts. 
Placed,  however,  in  connection  with  such  strong 
and  beautiful  poetry  as  this  volume  contains,  the 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

incident  has  a  complete  fitness.  It  is  harmoni- 
ously significant  of  one  who  is  at  once  a  man 
through  and  through,  and  a  poet  through  and 
through  —  believe  me,  a  far  from  usual  com- 
bination. Mr.  Kemp  is  now  generally  known, 
and  referred  to  in  the  press,  as  "the  tramp  poet." 
It  is  a  designation  of  which  he  may  well  be  proud 
—  whatever  meaning  may  attach  to  it  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  have  thus  labelled  him.  I 
dwell  a  little  upon  this  side  of  Mr.  Kemp's  career, 
because  of  the  quite  astonishing  contrast  —  with 
which  anyone  who  reads  this  volume  cannot  but 
immediately  be  surprised  —  between  all  that  the 
term  "tramp  poet"  connotes  and  the  character 
and  quality  of  the  poems  this  volume  contains. 

Tramp-poetry  one  might  not  unnaturally  ex- 
pect to  be  the  unkempt  rhymings,  probably  in 
vers  libre,  of  some  half-educated  pretender,  with 
far  more  tramp  in  it  than  poetry.  But,  curiously 
enough,  the  exact  reverse  is  the  truth;  for  here 
is  poetry,  highly  wrought  and  polished,  and,  while 
vital  with  original  human  experience,  in  the  direct 
tradition  of  the  noblest,  classic,  English  song. 
You  will  seek  in  vain  for  the  tramp;  but  there  is 
not  a  page  on  which  you  will  not  find  the  poet. 

Yet,  as  I  have  already  implied,  Mr.  Kemp  has 
been  as  sincere  in  one  character  as  in  the  other. 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

He  has  come  as  fairly  by  the  honourable  title  of 
"tramp,"  as  he  has  come  fairly  by  the  perhaps  no 
less  honourable  title  of  "poet."  A  word  or  two 
about  his  life  will  be  relevant  here.  Mr.  Kemp 
was  born  on  December  15,  1883,  at  Youngstown, 
Ohio,  his  forbears  on  his  father's  side  being  "Penn- 
sylvania Dutch/'  and  his  mother  being  an  English- 
woman. He  left  school  at  twelve  years  of  age,  and 
worked  for  several  years  in  the  Arlington  celluloid 
factory.  At  sixteen,  he  ran  away  to  sea,  shipping 
as  cattleman,  on  board  a  German  ship,  bound  for 
Australia.  Soon  after  he  turned  up  in  China, 
during  the  Boxer  rebellion.  Coming  back  to  this 
country,  he  took  a  turn  at  High  School,  but  soon 
resumed  his  chosen  profession,  his  next  tramp 
being  through  the  Genessee  Valley,  with  a  copy  of 
Christina  Rossetti  in  his  pocket.  Three  months 
in  a  Texas  gaol,  held  over  on  the  subtle  charge 
of  burglary,  was  Mr.  Kemp's  next  experience,  but 
the  Grand  Jury  failed  to  find  a  true  bill  against 
our  poet;  so  he  was  set  free  to  drop  in  for  a  while 
at  Elbert  Hubbard's  Roycroft  Shop,  in  East  Aurora. 
Thence  he  wandered  to  the  Mount  Hermon  Pre- 
paratory School  in  Massachusetts,  afterwards 
tramping  to  Lawrence,  Kansas,  where  he  stayed 
some  time,  taking  courses  at  the  State  University. 
Finally,  a  trip  on  a  cattle  train  brought  him 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

East,  where  for  the  most  part,  he  has  since  re- 
mained. 

This  brief  chronicle  should  also  include  farm 
work  in  various  states,  and  a  number  of  brief 
terms  in  gaol  —  for  vagrancy.  Mr.  Kemp  has 
also  worked  as  porter,  a  sort  of  third  cook,  on  the 
Great  Lakes. 

Such  was  the  fulness,  variety,  and  originality 
of  Mr.  Kemp's  training  for  that  "high  calling" 
of  poet,  which,  as  Milton  has  admonished  us,  no 
man  should  strive  after,  without  having  first 
made  his  life  a  true  poem;  a  reference  which  not 
irrelevantly  recalls  another  noble  phrase  of  Mil- 
ton's, that  in  regard  to  "the  race  where  that 
immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  without 
dust  and  heat."  Milton  was  referring  to  the 
Christian's  race  for  a  heavenly  crown,  but  we 
may  apply  his  phrase  to  the  race  for  the  immortal 
garland  of  the  Muses;  and  affirm  that  no  poet  of 
our  time  has  run  for  it  through  so  stern  and 
steadfast  a  course,  certainly  "not  without  dust 
and  heat,"  as  Mr.  Kemp. 

During  all  these  goings  to  and  fro  upon  the 
earth,  and  manful  grappling  with  the  human  lot 
in  so  many  grim  and  dreary,  if  adventurous,  ways, 
he  found  time  to  teach  himself  Greek,  and  to  be- 
come an  accomplished  Latinist;  reading  every- 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

thing  there  was  to  be  read,  and  especially  plung- 
ing with  passionate  absorption  into  the  study  of 
the  great  English  poets.  These  have  been  his 
constant  masters  and  influences.  But  he  has 
read  all  the  lesser  ones  too.  In  fact,  no  poetry 
ever  written  anywhere  seems  to  have  escaped  him. 
With  him,  as  with  Keats,  poetry  has  been  the  one 
passion  of  his  life.  Poetry  .  .  .  and,  of  course, 
the  beautiful  faces  of  women,  as  this  book  sup- 
plies plentiful  documentary  evidence.  That  goes 
without  saying;  for  the  loving  of  women  —  per- 
haps many  women  —  is,  of  course,  a  part  of  the 
process  of  poetry  —  that  part  which  consists  of  the 
continual  breaking  and  mending  and  breaking 
again  of  the  poet's  heart,  in  the  ordeal  of  beauty. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  heart-breaking  of  old 
love-stories  that  Mr.  Kemp  chooses  to  tell  again 
in  his  opening  poem,  Cresseid,  and  I  think  that  I 
shall  not  be  singular  among  his  readers  in  having 
felt  an  instant  thrill  of  gratitude  to  him  for  his 
having  gone  back  to  the  great  school  of  Chaucer 
for  the  manner  of  its  telling.  How  good  to  see  a 
modern  poet  writing  "after  the  mediaeval  Scotch 
of  Robert  Henryson."  It  seems  years  since  one 
heard  the  mention  of  that  sturdy  name.  And  with 
what  strength  and  skill  and  dramatic  force  Mr. 
Kemp  handles  the  fine  old  metre,  preserving  too 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

all  that  curious  sad  sweetness  that  clings  about 
the  strong  old  "English  undefiled"  -ex  forte 
dulcedo. 

By  itself,  Cresseid  is  enough  to  give  distinction 
to  this  volume,  and  at  once  to  win  for  Mr.  Kemp 
a  high  place  among  modern  poets,  as  a  poet  who 
is  an  artist  too;  though,  properly  speaking,  one 
should  not  make  any  such  distinction,  for,  ex- 
cept in  rare  cases  —  such  as  Blake  —  a  poet 
must  be  an  artist  to  be  a  poet  at  all. 

But  there  is  a  great  deal  more  in  this  volume 
than  Cresseid,  and  the  lyrics  and  "epigrams" 
which  form  its  bulk,  making  a  sort  of  lover's 
confessional,  are  no  less  artistically  wrought  than 
they  are  spontaneously  inspired.  It  is  an  en- 
viably fortunate  title  Mr.  Kemp  gives  to  them, 
and  significant  of  his  philosophy  as  "love's  pil- 
grim" —  The  Passing  God:  the  god  that  touches 
our  hearts,  either  to  fleeting  or  enduring  joy  (it 
matters  not  which)  and  passes  on  his  way.  These 
poems  are  in  many  moods  and  many  manners. 
The  marmoreal  influence  of  his  Greek  and  Latin 
studies  is  apparent  in  them  all,  for  they  all  com- 
bine a  firm  simplicity  of  contour  with  a  thrill  of 
apparently  unsought  beauty.  Sometimes,  too, 
they  recall  the  seemingly  flower-like  carelessness 
of  the  Restoration  lyrists.  Through  all,  too, 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

there  breathes  the  fragrance  of  romance,  like  that 
of  the  hidden  arbutus  in  the  spring  woods. 

One  day,  Mr.  Kemp  and  I  were  talking,  among 
other  matters,  of  the  poetry  of  Mr.  William  Wat- 
son, and,  after  I  had  quoted  some  of  the  incom- 
parable stanzas  of  "Wordsworth's  Grave,"  Mr. 
Kemp  made  what  struck  me  as  being  a  very 
illuminative  comment:  to  the  effect  that  in  Mr. 
Watson's  poetry,  at  its  best,  there  was  an  in- 
teresting fusion  of  the  methods  of  Pope  and  Keats 
—  eighteenth-century  precision,  with  something 
of  the  sensuous  glamour  "the  wizard  twilight," 
that  characterised  the  romanticist  revolt  of  the 
early  nineteenth  century.  Mr.  Kemp  held  that 
in  that  revolt,  and  its  succeeding  developments, 
we  had  gone  too  far  in  the  other  direction,  and 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  worth  saving  in  the 
eighteenth-century  method.  In  this  I  quite  agree 
with  him,  and  his  own  poetry  points  his  own 
moral.  After  all,  it  is  vain  to  try  and  get  away 
from  Milton's  "simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate." 
Nor  has  there  ever  been  any  need  to,  nor  will 
there  ever  be.  Because  poetry  can  be  too  clear, 
and  too  precise,  is  no  reason  for  our  going  to  the 
other  extreme  of  esoteric  incomprehensibility. 
Poetry  may  be  perfectly  clear  and  comprehensible, 
and  yet  glow  with  that  light  that  never  was  on 

on 


COMMENDATORY  ADDRESS 

sea  or  land.  It  is  always  so  with  the  best  poetry. 
Meaning  and  magic  are  not  necessarily  incom- 
patible; and  I  trust  —  though  I  have  my  fears 
—  that  it  will  not  be  held  against  Mr.  Kemp  that 
his  songs  always  have  a  meaning,  are  always 
(borribile  dictu!)  "interesting,"  in  spite  of  their 
being  suggestive  beyond  their  themes,  with  those 
undertones  and  overtones  without  which  poetry 
cannot  exist.  Those  who  seek  vague,  mystical, 
symbolical,  mathematical,  or  "colourful"  verbiage 
must  go  elsewhere.  It  is  to  be  had  by  the  ton, 
for  the  asking.  All  Mr.  Kemp  can  bring  to  the 
reader  is  beautiful,  simple  and  passionate  singing, 
the  expression  and  interpretation  of  his  own  ad- 
ventures with  love  and  beauty,  the  wonder,  the 
heartache,  the  gaiety,  the  whimsical  cynicism, 
the  wayward  philosophies,  that  in  a  rich  "pic- 
aresque" nature  belong  to  such  experience.  In 
a  sub-title  he  calls  his  book  "Songs  for  Lovers." 
Lovers  will  certainly  love  this  book,  for  there  is 
scarce  a  mood  of  loving,  a  joy,  a  fear,  a  bliss,  a 
torture,  or  a  whimsy,  which  does  not  here  find 
expression,  by  one  who  is  not  merely  a  good  poet, 
but  an  engagingly  human  being,  with  a  wise, 
laughing  eye  on  himself,  but  at  the  same  time  an 
indestructible  faith  in  the  folly  of  loving. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


CRESSEID 

A  NARRATIVE  POEM   INSPIRED   BT  THE  MEDIAEVAL 
SCOTCH  OF  ROBERT  HENRTSON 

Dedicated  to  my  father-in-law,  JOHN  PYNE,  as  a  slight  return  for  bis 
encouragement  and  appreciation  during  the  writing  of  this  narrative 


PROEM 


A 


DOLEFUL  season  suits  a  doleful  tale, 
And  so  it  was  when  I  began  to  write 
This  tragedy.     From  the  North  showers  of  hail 
Drove  downward  in  grey  clouds  of  sidelong  flight, 
Bouncing  and  roaring  on  my  roof  at  night 
And  smoking  o'er  the  heather  in  dim  day.  .  .  . 
/  scarce  could  drive  the  bitter  cold  away. 

ii 

Yet,  none  the  less,  within  my  little  room 

I  stood  when  the  pale  sun  had  dropped  from  eye 

And  Venus  throbbed  all  golden  in  the  gloom 

Girdled  with  light  and  immortality ,  — 

A  dying  rose  still  lingered  in  the  sky, 

While  she,  like  a  young  moon,  in  beauty  shone, 

And  for  the  moment  held  the  dark  alone. 


CRESSEID 


HI 

Her  beams  poured  through  the  glass  so  clear  and  fair 

That  I  might  see  the  wind  had  purified. 

Bleak  from  the  North,  the  crystal-washing  air, 

And  packed  the  clouds  away  on  every  side; 

The  white  frost  crisped  and  sparkled  far  and  wide; 

The  blasts  in  gusts  came  whistling  sharp  and  chill 

And  made  me  draw  away  against  my  will. 

IV 

For  I  held  trust  that  she  of  love  the  queen, 

To  whom  Vd  rendered  true  obedience, 

Would  make  my  faded  heart  again  sprout  green,  — 

And,  thereupon,  in  humble  reverence, 

I  thought  to  pray  her  high  magnificence  - 

But  the  wide  cold  put  frost  to  my  desire, 

And  I  removed,  and  shook  before  my  fire; 


I  blew  it  up  into  a  roaring  flame 
And  in  its  light  I  turned  myself  about, 
Brewed  a  hot  draught,  drew  comfort  from  the  same. 
So,  having  put  the  sharp-breathed  cold  to  rout, 
I  fetched  my  Master  Chaucer's  volume  out 
And  wore  the  night  till  dawn  reading  the  tale 
Of  Troilus'  love  for  Cresseid,  and  their  bale. 


CRESSEID 


VI 

But  naught  I  saw  therein  of  how  fate  sent 

One  touch  of  blackness  into  CresseicTs  life, 

Till  on  another  book  my  gaze  I  bent, 

In  which  I  found  how  this  fair,  wanton  wife, 

After  the  Greeks  had  left  their  ten  years9  strife, 

Was  brought  low  like  the  dust  that  strews  the  street. 

That  even  slaves  tread  under  with  their  feet.  .  .  . 

VII 

Which  I  shall  make  in  English  as  I  may 

In  language  oaken-rough,  but  flowered  at  times. 

I  would  not, pack  the  Summer  in  one  day; 

Let  others  jingle  on  in  jeweled  rhymes 

Laid  dazzling-thick,  —  the  singer's  chief  'of  crimes: 

To  make  Apollo  all  his  trappings  wear 

In  twenty  suits  at  once  —  he's  brighter  bare! 


CRESSEID 

VV   HEN  Diomed  had  cloyed  his  appetite 
On  Cresseid's  body,  like  the  wind  he  blew 
Another  course.     He  set  his  whole  delight 
Upon  another,  and  no  longer  knew 
Cresseid,    though    she   was    fair    as    flower   with 

dew.  .  . . 

And  desolate  she  wandered  up  and  down, 
And  joined,  some  say,  the  women  of  the  town. 


II 

Thrust  from  the  high-arched  doorway  of  his  house, 
Full  oft  she  went  in  lack  of  daily  bread 
Despite  her  body  small  and  amorous  — 
For    all    the    townsmen    stood    in    face-blanched 

dread 

Of  him  to  whom  she  once  unveiled  her  head. 
Oft  then  in  dreams  she  turned  to  Troy  again 
Where  she  was  royal  and  had  serving  men. 


CRESSEID 

in 

And  in  short  space  so  waste  her  days  became 
From  lack  of  friends  and  comfort,  that  she  went 
Out  at  the  city  gates,  this  lovely  dame, 
Disguised,  and  to  her  father,  Chalcas,  sent 
Ahead.     And  so  made  speed  incontinent 
When  dusk  had  cloaked  the  world  and  day  hung 

dim  .  .  . 
She  fell  along  the  earth  and  wept  by  him  .... 

IV 

Old  Chalcas,  captive,  served  at  Venus'  shrine 

And  her  son  Cupid's,  and  the  temple  kept. 

Each  eve  he  waked  the  lamps  like  stars  in  line. . . . 

To  Cupid's  altar  every  morning  crept 

Cresseid,  close-cloaked,  and  loosed  her  hair,  and 

wept, 

Heart-shaken,  ere  up  marble-vistaed  stairs 
Came  slow-processioned  folk  in  solemn  pairs. 


For  she  would  not  that  any  one  might  see 
Her  fall  from  the  high  place  she  held  of  late.  .  . 
There,  kneeling  in  close-curtained  orat'ry, 
From  day  to  day  bewailing  her  sad  fate, 
She  prayed  to  Him  who  left  her  desolate, 

C293 


CRESSEID 

Cupid,  whom  she  had  served  from  that  first  hour 
That  her  sweet  bud  of  life  burst  into  flower. 


VI 

Now  held  of  vilest  worth  on  lips  of  men, 
To  Troilus  lost,  by  Diomed  put  by, 
Become  a  tale  that  old  wives  tell  again 
With  nodded  head  and  close,  lascivious  eye, 
What  was  there  left  for  Cresseid  but  to  die? 
A  darker  end  —  that  she  should  live  and  be 
A  rose  where  death  held  secret  revelry! 


VII 

A  rose,  which,  leaf  by  leaf,  must  fall  away 
While  the  worm  trailed  its  blackness  to  the  core; 
Gnawed  into  piecemeal,  yellowed  by  decay, 
To  gradual  pollution  given  o'er 
Till  sucked-out  emptiness  held  nothing  more, 
Till  plague  spread  wing  and  buzzed  and  passed 

her  by, 
And  Death,  strange-pitying,  gave  her  leave  to  die! 


VIII 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Cresseid.     In  the  glass 
She  glimpsed  the  grey  pits  hollowing  her  face: 

C303 


CRESSEID 

First,  hints  of  ruin  like  light  clouds  did  pass, 
Then  slowly  each  root  pushed  into  its  place 
Till  the  foul  growth  had  clutched  in  its  embrace 
All  that  men's  roving  eyes  approve  as  good 
In  the  prized  comeliness  of  womanhood. 


IX 

And  Cresseid  cursed  the  coming  of  the  flowers 
And  the  soft,  infinite  falling  of  the  rain. 
And  Cresseid  cursed  the  heavy-footed  hours, 
Slow-crawling  hosts  o'er  Time's  unending  plain. 
She  cursed  all  life,  all  pity,  and  all  pain, 
All  hope  and  joy  —  but  over  and  above 
She  cursed  her  death-in-life,  the  god  of  love! 


She  sent  her  little,  timid-footed  Page 

With  tangled  golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue, 

Unto  her  father,  laying  on  his  age 

A  deeper  burden  than  the  eye  can  view.  .  .  . 

"Father,  I  ask  but  one  small  boon  of  you,  — 

Give  me  a  little  brazen  gong  to  beat 

With  leper  folk  to  get  my  bread  and  meat." 


CRESSEID 

XI 

Her  father  came,  with  that,  and  kneeling  low, 

He  sought  to  lift  her,  but  away  she  thrust 

His  ancient  arms,  then,  bitter-tongued  from  woe, 

"Oh,  that  I  serve  a  god  who  is  unjust," 

He  cried,  "For  now  life  holds  but  little  lust.  .  .  . 

Thou  God  of  Love,  full  true  they  call  thee  blind, 

Only  one  sightless  could  be  so  unkind!" 

XII 

"Father,"    wept    Cresseid,    "Nothing    may    be 

done; 

Let  me  go  forth  in  darkness  and  unknown, 
Cloaked    from    men's    eyes    and    the    too-curious 

sun.  .  .  . 

Give  me  a  beggar's  hat,  a  beggar's  gown.  .  .  . 
I  must  go  forth  to  live  in  lepers'  town  .  .  . 
For  all  the  joy  of  life  has  gone  from  me!" 
"Thou  cruel  god,"  he  groaned,  "who  cannot  see!" 

XIII 

Time  must  forever  onward  run,  no  turn 
May  eddy  backward  in  his  flowing  stream; 
Tears,  falling  for  old  sorrows,  cease  to  burn, 
And  life  itself  becomes  a  passing  dream, 
So  that  what  things  are  real  and  what  seem 


CRESSEID 

Together  in  a  tangled  garden  grow,  — 

And  ghosts,  a-stray,  in  ghostly  realms  we  go. 

XIV 

The  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future  fold 
One  Thing,  and  though  we  call  it  "life,"  who  knows 
What  in  wise  hands  Eternity  may  hold,  — 
What  sweet,  immortal  balm  for  mortal  woes!  .  .  . 
But  Time,  at  last,  that  ever  onward  flows, 
Will  carry  us  to  where  we'll  know  full  well  — 
What  none  of  us  will  e'er  return  to  tell.  .  .  . 

xv 

Having  wept  dry  the  sources  of  her  tears, 
Cresseid  arose  and  bowed  her  soul  to  fate, 
A  broken  thing  that  all  the  breaking  years 
Could  into  nothing  worse  disintegrate.  .  .  . 
She  crept  forth  at  a  secret  postern  gate, 
Unknown,  unseen,  and  loathing  to  be  seen 
Who  once  had  walked  abroad  as  beauty's  queen. 

XVI 

Where  whispered  sedge  by  barren  waters  thinned 
And  sudden  snakes  slid  rustling  out  of  view, 
Near  a  wide  marsh,  dry-bitten  by  the  wind, 
With  tardy  piety,  as  rich  men  do, 
In  fear  for  huge,  ill-gotten  revenue, 


CRESSEID 

Or  in  repentance  for  his  youth's  carouse, 
A  certain  man  had  built  the  lazar  house. 


XVII 

With    ignorant    trust    to    purchase    Christ    from 

God.  .  .  . 

Bleak  as  the  grey-washed  sea  this  hospital! 
Abhorrence,  skirting  far,  the  sky's  edge  trod. 
As  in  the  dark  men  press  a  friendly  wall.  .  .  . 
So  there  the  lepers'  wail,  the  sea-birds'  call 
And  winds  and  waves  were  all  that  silence  heard 
Save  when  some  sliding  snake  the  sedges  stirred. 

XVIII 

The  clouted  lepers  found  last  refuge  there 
As  all  the  Dead  at  last  must  seek  the  grave. 
The  huge  catastrophe  of  one  despair 
From  which  no  mortal  medicine  can  save 
A  common  lack  of  hope  unto  them  gave 
From  day  to  day  respiring  briefer  breath 
In  sad  democracy  of  living  death. 

XIX 

As  from  a  tomb,  each  morn  they  issued  out 
To  squat  in  rags  against  the  city  gates, 

C343 


CRESSEID 

Exposing  ulcered  stump  and  ugly  clout 

And    begging    scarce-flung    coins,    contemptuous 

cates, 

And  bowing  in  return  their  scurfy  pates 
To  call  God's  eyes  upon  the  giver's  soul 
For  meager  alms  dropped  into  wooden  bowl.  .  .  . 


xx 

Yet,  if  the  Dead  in  graves  were  live,  not  dead, 

Or  lay  in  living  death  bound  side  by  side, 

Then  even  they  would  grow  accustomed 

(As  bride  to  feel  the  bridegroom  at  her  side) 

Unto  that  sad  existence  coffin-wide,  — 

Would  learn  as  commonplace  the  caverned  dark 

And  live  strange  death  with  none  but  God  to  mark. 


XXI 

The  lepers  lived  and  bred  like  other  men.  .  .  . 
After  the  strangeness  dwindled  in  their  hearts. 
From  very  humanness,  they  turned  again 
(If  not  to  common  trades  and  common  arts 
And  tilling  fields  and  chaffering  goods  in  marts) 
To  pride  they  turned,  and  hate,  and  love,  and 

lust, 
And  all  that  shakes  the  heart  till  it  be  dust.  .  .  . 


CRESSEID 

XXII 

Her  cheerless  way  along  the  alien  sand 
Cresseid  now  stole  —  Terror  and  she  alone  — 
But  no,  —  her  Memory  waved  its  cursed  wand, 
And  kings  she  saw  that  sat  on  throne  on  throne 
With  queens  close  by  (it  made  her  spirit  groan) 
And  lords  and  ladies  thriving  merrily  - 
And  she  was  lonelier  for  such  company. 

XXIII 

No  noise  was  needed  at  the  lazar  door, 
Nor  timid  knock  nor  volley  loud  and  bold,  - 
The  harsh  bolt  is  no  brother  to  the  Poor 
And  careful  lock  securing  stolen  gold.  .  .  . 
But  these  poor  folk  had  even  less  to  hold, 
And  so  their  house  lay  open  like  a  street 
Where  only  winds  crept  up  on  timid  feet.  .  .  . 

XXIV 

Where  none  but  winds  and  creeping  lazars  went. . 
Here  Cresseid  faltered  at  the  outer  post, 
And,  after  God's  eternity  seemed  spent, 
She  moved  like  one  attended  by  a  ghost 
(Perhaps  but  vanguard  to  a  monstrous  host) 
Not  daring  lift  her  eyes  or  turn  her  head  - 
Into  the  hostel  of  the  Living  Dead.  .  .  . 

C36] 


CRESSEID 

XXV 

Into  the  hostel  of  the  Dead  she  passed 

As  a  sick  animal  creeps  forth  to  die 

That  Nature  tells  which  hour  must  be  its  last.  .  . 

But  first  she  raised  her  wrecked  face  to  the  sky 

And  prayed  that  her  few  days  might  hasten  by, 

That  her  shamed  soul  might  go  its  silent  way 

And  not  behold  her  body's  slow  decay 

xxvi 

And  now  she  dared  to  let  her  fearful  eyes 
Glimpse  slowly  round  —  as  in  a  dungeon's  dark 
The  dazed  culprit's  gradual  vision  spies 
With  gaze  accustomed,  every  woeful  mark 
Set  in  the  stones  by  some  imprisoned  clerk 
Who  traced  sad  verses  ere  his  hand  forebore 
And  the  sharp  axe  set  wide  his  prison  door.  .  .  . 

XXVII 

Scattered  like  rocks  that  break  a  level  sea 
The  lepers  gathered  semblance  in  her  gaze. 
Yon,  —  Christ  have  mercy,  —  quavering  merrily, 
One  sang  falsetto  of  green-shadowed  ways 
And  made  a  ballad  in  his  lady's  praise.  — 
Sad  seemed  his  gladness,  to  seem  doubly  sad 
When  witless  laughter  spake  a  mind  run  mad. 


CRESSEID 

XXVIII 

Wild  came  that  laughter  as  a  voice  in  air 
That  frights  a  wanderer  in  a  haunted  land, 
Floating  about  his  ears,  now  here,  now  there, 
Till,  with  uplifted  staff  he  makes  his  stand 
But  only  strikes  the  void  on  every  hand,  - 
Then  hastens  with  his  cloak  about  his  ears 
More  fearful  since  he  knows  not  what  he  fears. 

XXIX 

Some  played  at  dice,  some  chattered,  some  were 

still, 
While    others    wrapped    new    clouts    about    old 

sores,  — 

For  all  held  death  to  be  the  greater  ill, 
And  so  they  bided  there  on  rush-strewn  floors. 
The  house  of  life  possesses  many  doors: 
The  grave  holds  only  one,  so  strangely  stout 
All  must  go  in,  but  none  may  wander  out. 

XXX 

All  her  glad  days  at  last  seemed  strangely  far, 
And  time  was  fledged  with  paradise  no  more, 
And  love,  that  lights  the  mind  up  like  a  star, 
To  lay  assaults  against  her  heart  forebore. 
She  felt  content  with  rushes  on  the  floor  .  .  . 

C38] 


CRESSEID 

Then  in  a  trice  she  woke  to  life,  and  cried 
Aloud,  for  Horror  squatted  at  her  side. 

XXXI 

It  was  a  man,  It  said.  ...    It  called  her  "  Fair. "... 
"Cresseid,"  she  heard  the  word  endearing  come, 
As  if  an  echo  got  birth  from  the  air: 
The  gaping  thing  could  not  be  else  but  dumb,  .  .  . 
And  now  it  put  a  hand  that  was  all  thumb 
Against  her  breasts,  and  cried  again  aloud  — 
This  naked  body  ready  for  its  shroud. 

XXXII 

"Cresseid,  I  know  you  well,"  the  creature  said,  — 
"  Right  welcome  are  you  to  our  burial  ground, 
For  still  love  stirs  among  the  Living  Dead." 
Cresseid  for  terror  could  not  make  a  sound 
As    with     that    wide-eyed     nightmare    she    sat 

bound.  .  .  . 

Her  voice  rushed  forth  at  last,  "You  loathly  jest 
Upon  mankind  —  the  Dead  at  least  know  rest 

xxxni 

You  are  so  old  you  have  forgot  to  die!" 
"Nay,  I  am  young  as  you,  if  you  but  knew!" 
"Then  life  itself  has  given  you  the  lie!" 
"Yea  —  the  same  lie  that  it  has  given  you!" 

C393 


CRESSEID 

"Your  eyes  are  sockets,  and  your  flesh  is  blue.  .  .  ." 
"Yet  I  was  Phidion  ...  a  year  ago 
Cresseid  had  never  thought  to  use  me  so.  ... 

xxxiv 

No  longer  sunrise  widens  into  day, 

Nor  from  great  windows  can  I  watch  the  dawn, — 

Darkness  has  swept  the  happy  stars  away, 

And  into  blackness  has  the  bright  world  gone  - 

And  yet  I  guess  that  beauty  has  withdrawn 

In  ebb  of  loveliness  from  your  drear  face 

And  body  that  once  filled  a  king's  embrace.  .  .  . 

XXXV 

Since  we  are  equals  thus  —  why  not  in  love?  .  .  . 
You  knew  me  comely  once,  as  you  were  fair. 
Why  tremble,  sweetheart,  like  a  captured  dove! 
My  foot  was  joyful  once  upon  your  stair; 
Your  eager  fingers  once  went  through  my  hair!'* 
"Away,  foul  toad  —  God,  that  I  could  not  see! 
You  fright  to  life  all  I  thought  dead  in  me."  .  .  . 

xxxvi 
"Aye  me,  aye  me!"  she  wailed,  when   Phidion 

went,. 

"  From  its  fresh  grave  arises  my  distress. 
To  lazar  ways  my  soul  had  grown  content; 


CRESSEID 

But  now  a  solitary  hut  I'd  bless 

Set  amid  silence  in  a  wilderness." 

An  aged  leper  crone  who  crouched  nearby 

Lifted  her  ancient  voice  and  croaked  reply. 

XXXVII 

"Give  heed  to  one  who  would  advise  you  well: 
It  profits  nothing,  lady,  thus  to  plain. 
Since  in  this  hospital  you  still  must  dwell 
Till  death  prove  kind,  there  is  no  hope  to  gain.  .  . 
So  take  your  bowl  and  clapper,  and  be  fain 
To  use  your  shoulders  to  the  galling  yoke 
And  go  and  beg  your  bread  with  leper  folk." 

XXXVIII 

After  that  Troy  had  bowed  her  heights  to  flame 
That  those  cloud-envied  tops  forevermore 
Might  build  themselves  into  eternal  fame,  - 
Some  few  in  scattered  bands  escaped  that  shore 
Whom  blowing  winds  and  flowing  waters  bore 
To  other  lands.  .  .  .      Troilus  was  one  of  these  - 
He  shook  the  islands  with  wild  piracies 

xxxix 

And  up  the  inlets  rowed  and  struck  the  land, 
Taking  their  sleeping  strongholds  unaware, 

C4I3 


CRESSEID 

Becoming  to  the  Greeks  a  blazing  brand 
And  to  their  chiefs  a  symbol  of  despair  — 
Revenge  for  fallen  Troy  his  only  prayer 
Which  at  the  altars  of  the  gods  he  made  - 
But  aye  he  thought  of  Cresseid  as  he  prayed. 


XL 

And  now  he  paced  with  his  bright-armoured  tread 
That  land  to  his  long-dreamed  revenge  so  dear, 
The  kingdom  of  adulterous  Diomed.  .  .  . 
His  heart  rejoiced  because  his  foe  was  near.  .  .  . 
His  great  arm  trembled  as  he  took  his  spear 
Longing  to  drive  it  through  the  man  he  sought 
And  slaying  him  a  hundred  times  in  thought. 

XLI 

They  were  too  few  embattled  siege  to  keep 

Or  under  day  to  dare  unequal  fight, 

And  so  they  gave  the  Watch  eternal  sleep 

And  forced  the  palace  gates  at  deepest  night: 

And  some  they  slew  in  half-arisen  flight, 

And    some,    in    sleep  .  .  .  'mongst    whom    their 

headless  Lord 
Sprawled,  clutching  in  his  hand  his  half-sheathed 

sword. 


CRESSEID 

XLII 

Then  with  closed  visors  toward  their  ship  they 

fled, 

Troilus  and  all  his  men,  ere  day  made  known 
To  twenty  thousand  swords  their  deed  of  dread  — 
But  night  into  the  morn  so  swift  had  grown 
That  unexpected  dawn  anon  has  shown 
His  peering  face  with  one  star  at  his  brow,  — 
And  all  the  little  birds  are  singing  now. 

XLIII 

The  little  birds  are  singing  .  .  .  fluting  low 
In  leafy  underbrush,  concealed  from  eye, 
Among  the  fruit  trees  ranged  in  ordered  row, 
On   trees   whose   tops   seemed   tangled   with   the 

sky;  — 

And,  from  the  meadow  grass,  sprung  up  on  high, 
The  lark  in  golden  music  disappears 
Lost  to  the  eye,  but  charming  mortal  ears. 

XLIV 

The  laughter  of  the  sunlight  in  the  leaves 
Grew  brighter  as  a  wind  blew  in  from  dawn,  — 
And  golden-flashing  shone  the  warriors'  greaves, 
And  diamond-woven  each  habergeon.  .  .  . 
They  rode  a-breast  in  flowing  unison 


CRESSEID 

As  light  as  swallows  gliding  on  the  wing  — 
For  they  had  stol'n  the  horses  of  the  king 

XLV 

And  surely  they  rejoiced  to  feel  again 
Those  steeds,  beneath,  responsive  to  the  rein,  - 
For,  from  their  youth,  they'd  been  good  riding 

men, 
And  oft  their  hearts  had  rushed  through  every 

vein 

With  thunder-beating  hoofs  and  flying  mane.  .  .  . 
Reluctant,  they  beheld  the  sea  a-far 
Like  the  great  body  of  a  shattered  star. 

XLVI 

And  now  they  sped  where  the  wide-elbowed  road 
Lapsed    'round,    and    straight    ahead    the    ocean 

swept; 

Brimming  the  sky  the  mighty  waters  flowed.  .  .  . 
For  league  on  league  the  foamy  breakers  crept 
To  show  how  that  their  Father  never  slept, 
Deep  in  his  heart,  but  ever  dreamed  of  storm 
As  in  the  Vast  he  couched  his  giant  form. 

XLVII 

The  lazar  house  bestirred  itself  that  morn 
When  the  first  shaft  of  day  had  put  to  flight 


CRESSEID 

The  last  dim  star  .  .  .  and  Cresseid  rose  forlorn 
Knowing  she  must  go  forth  in  beggar's  plight.  .  . 
To  see  those  lepers  was  a  monstrous  sight 
As  o'er  the  sands  they  crept  like  hideous  spawn 
And  nameless  live  things  left  by  tides  withdrawn. 


XLVIII 

The  Trojans  saw  them  moving,  small  and  far, 
Like  flights  of  birds  that  hang  against  the  sky, 
And  Troilus  cried,  "I  swear  by  Venus'  Star 
And  Father  Ocean's  million  progeny, 
A  moving  host  I  see  approaching  nigh  - 
But  not  a  shield  they  bear  to  flash  the  sun 
Nor  any  piece  of  armour  warriors  don." 


XLIX 

"Lass,  follow  me,  and  do  what  things  I  bid," 
The  aged  leper  crone  to  Cresseid  spake. 
"Keep  not  your  face  in  shameful  mantle  hid  - 
Thus  you  may  sooner  people's  pity  wake.  .  .  . 
And  you  must  seem  in  every  limb  to  quake.  .  . 
Behold,  there  winds  around  yon  Western  hill 
Folk  who  will  put  to  test  your  learner's  skill." 


CRESSEID 

L 

The  knights  drew  near.  .  .  .  their  dancing  scab- 
bards clanked 
Against  their  thighs  ...  a    faltering    land    wind 

bore 

Their  laughter  and  their  voices.  .  .  .  triple-ranked 
They  gained  the  waste  that  spread  its  level  floor 
From  distant  hills  to  distant  sea  .  .  .  and  more 
Cresseid  nor  saw  nor  heard :  they  used  the  tongue 
Of  Troy  —  her  being  with  its  music  rung, 

LI 

And  tears  ran  down  her  aged-seeming  face.  .  .  . 
Yet,  lest  she  should  be  known,  she  bided  mute,  - 
Or  made  some  sounds  in  Greek  in  that  wide  place, 
Which,  though  it  be  to  all  the  world  a  lute, 
To  her  seemed  better  fitted  for  the  brute 
Beside  the  perfect  speech  she  knew  in  Troy 
Where  every  Hour  was  born  a  child  of  joy. 

LII 

She  lifted  up  her  bowl  and  cried,  "Good  sirs!  .  .  . 
Have  pity!"     Then    her    voice    no    more    could 

tell  - 

A  motion  comes  upon  her  which  bestirs 
Her  sleeping  nature  to  its  inmost  cell  — 

1:463 


CRESSEID 

A  shadowy  dread  athwart  her  sunlight  fell 

As  of  an  obscure  ill  she  knew  before 

Or  lived,  or  dreamed,  on  some  forgotten  shore. 


LIII 

Life  was  so  strange  it  might  be  all  a  dream.  .  .  . 

She  hardly  knew  if  she  were  live  or  dead. 

What    things    had    really    been,    and    what    did 

seem?  .  .  . 

As  Troilus  passed  he  moved  disquieted 
And  unnamed  sorrows  through  his  being  sped.  .  .  . 
Why  should  this  hag  quicken  dead  worlds  in  him 
Making  his  hands  shake  and  his  eye  grow  dim? 


LIV 

Cresseid!  ...  Ah  God,  and  where  was  Cresseid 

now? 

He  wore  her  ring  upon  his  finger  yet. 
Why   should    this    creature   with   her    roughened 

brow 

Bring  to  his  memory  one  he  should  forget, 
The  still-belov'd,  who  shamed  his  love,  and  set 
His  fame  on  high  to  be  perpetual  scorn 
So  that  he  loathed  the  day  that  he  was  born? 

C473 


CRESSEID 

LV 

Before  he  guessed  it,  his  great  hand  had  clasped 
His  bag  of  spoil;  he  reined  his  horse  in  flight, 
Checking  the  foaming  bridle  golden-hasped, 
And  showered,  in  a  cataract  of  light, 
Jewel  on  jewel,  pillaged  that  same  night 
From  the  wide-plundered  palace  of  the  king  — 
And,  at  the  last,  he  cast  thereto  his  ring: 

LVI 

He  would  forget  that  he  had  ever  known 
Falseness  so  fair,  and  love  so  full  of  hate; 
Not  even  to  the  memory  that  had  grown 
Within  him,  would  he  be  compassionate: 
He  would  be  stronger,  if  he  must,  than  fate.  .  .  . 
Where  was  his  warrior  heart,  his  warrior  pride? 
Why  should  he  longer  keep  a  ghost  to  bride? 

LVII 

He  laughed  out  like  a  sick  man  who  grows  glad 
Before  he  dies,  mistaking  death  for  life: 
His  fellow  raiders  thought  their  chief  gone  mad: 
They  gathered  almost  into  open  strife  - 
One  laid  his  hand  along  his  ready  knife 
At  seeing  riches  garnered  with  such  pain 
Dropped  into  beggar's  lap  like  careless  rain. 

£48] 


CRESSEID 

LVIII 

But    "Onward !"       Troilus    spake  —  and    they 

obeyed, 
Though     murmuring     thunder     half-aroused     to 

storm.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  like  lightning  through  his  morion  played, 
And  a  god  seemed  to  swell  within  his  form.  .  .  . 
His  warriors  feared,  though  suckled  on  alarm 
Before  they  left  their  mothers'  breasts  .  .  .  they 

bent 
Seaward  again,  with  his  strong  will  content. 

LIX 

"Ah!"  cried  the  lepers,  gathering  fast  around, 
As  flies  about  a  flagon  overturned, 
"Good  hap,  a  pretty  gentleman  youVe  found 
Whom  in  the  olden  days  your  beauty  spurned 
Till  like  a  windy  torch  desire  burned 
Within  him  for  your  tender  body's  touch!  .  .  . 
He  loved  you  well,  for  he  has  given  much!  — 

LX 

More  than  we  lepers  ever  got  or  will.  .  .  . 
Now  we'll  be  rich  for  many  days  of  ease: 
We'll  fill  our  casks  with  wine  and  eat  our  fill." 
Cresseid  half-rose  upon  her  gnarled  knees. 

C493 


CRESSEID 

Her  soul  at  last  was  sick  with  death's  disease. 
"Go  .  .  .  run  ...  go  ...  see  ...  if  it  be  he!" 

she  said, 
"Go  .  .  .  I   will   give  you   all  ...  when   I    am 

dead." 

LXI 

One  who  was  whole  but  for  a  lion's  face, 
Except  he  squeaked  whereas  a  lion  roared, 
Leaped,  gossip-eager,  from  his  squatting-place, 
And  set  off  running,  shrilling  loud,  "Great  Lord, 
Grant  us,  we  beg  of  you,  one  passing  word.  .  .  . 
Whoe'er  you  are,  pray  tell  us  —  we  would  know 
His  mighty  name  who  loves  poor  lepers  so!" 

LXII 

Then  cried  a  lad  who  galloped  in  the  rear, 
"Go  back  and  tell  them,  Troilus  is  his  name, 
One  who  has  never  seen  the  front  of  fear, 
One  who  will  sit  upon  the  head  of  fame 
Till  the  world  tumbles  headlong  whence  it  came 
And  chaos  sprawl  athwart  the  sky  in  peace,  .  .  . 
Troilus,  who  lives  to  pluck  the  beard  of  Greece!" 

LXIII 

" Troilus,  that  mighty  man!"  the  old  wife  cried  — 
"His  tale  has  been  a  proverb  many  a  year.  .  .  . 


CRESSEID 

'The  Story  Of  The  Trojan  and  His  Bride' 

Has  gone  abroad  that  every  man  may  hear.  .  .  . 

So    it    is    false  .  .  .  and    YOU    have    been    his 

dear?  .  .  . 

The  ballad  has  it  that  he  still  keeps  true.  .  .  . 
I  knew  he'd  do  the  same  that  all  men  do, 


LXIV 

For  troth  has  never  yet  been  kept  by  man!" 
But  Cresseid  heard  no  word  the  lepers  spake. 
Once  more  through  diamond-scattered  dews  she 

ran, 

A  girl,  while  dawn  shed  flake  on  golden  flake 
Of  glory  over  waves  that  rose  to  take 
The  morning  to  them  .  .  .  and,  afar,  she  heard 
The  God  of  Love  himself,  cry  out  One  Word. 


LXV 

"Love,  wait  for  me,"  she  called,  "I  come  to  thee,' 

And  she  grew  into  Woman  as  she  ran: 

And  still  Love  cried  from  blue  immensity.  .  .  . 

Seeking  to  gain  a  god,  she  got  a  man, 

Troilus  .  .  .  and  then  a-new  the  quest  began : 

Love  calling,  calling  ever  from  the  void, 

Ever  ahead,  and  never  yet  enjoyed ! 


CRESSEID 


LXVI 

Then  Diomed  caught  her  up  and  cast  her  by, 
And  Phidion  with  lute  and  garland  strove 
To  prove  himself  the  sought  divinity.  .  .  . 
And  others  mocked  her  in  the  name  of  Love, 
One  after  one,  —  a  wine-flushed,  singing  drove!  .  .  . 
A  wand  was  waved  .  .  .  they  turned  to  fleeing 

swine.  .  .  . 
She  closed  her  eyes:  still  called  that  Voice  Divine! 


LXVII 

"Ah,   Love,   where   art   thou  .  .  .  bide   for   me, 

I  pray!" 
Her  feet  went  swift  on  clouds  that  flowed  and 

flowed.  .  .  . 
"Love,    I    have   sought    thee   now   for    many   a 

day; 

I  have  gone  down  full  many  a  beckoning  road; 
My  eyes  have  scattered  stars,  my  breasts  have 

glowed, 
Thinking    that    thou    wert    close  .  .  .  but    thou 

wert  gone.  .  .  . 
Make  day  for  me  with  thy  immortal  dawn!  .  .  . 

£52] 


CRESSEID 

LXVIII 

Phidion!"  she  shrieked  .  .  .  she  saw  his  loath- 
some face 

Changed  from  the  comeliness  it  once  had  been.  .  .  . 
And  then  another  presence  took  its  place,  — 
A  Presence  that  she  felt,  that  stayed  unseen.  .  .  . 
The  absence  of  all  shadow  dropped  between.  .  .  . 
She  covered  eyes,  and,  waiting,  stayed  her  breath. 
She  need  not  look  —  she  knew  that  it  was  Death. 

LXIX 

Then,  like  the  sound  of  many  melodies 
From  many  lutes,  each  word  soared  forth,  a  star: 
"Rise,  Sweetheart,  rise!  nor  bruise  those  dimpled 

knees, 

Which  should  be  only  pressed  against  a  flower, 
On  the  harsh  earth  forevermore!    There  are 
Dreams    within    dreams  —  and    life    of   these    is 

one!" 
And  glory  dawned  about  her  like  the  sun.  .  .  . 

LXX 

"Death  —  thou?"   "Yea,  I!"   " Fore'er  wilt  thou 

be  true 

And  strong  enough  to  hold  me  evermore  ? " 
"Yea,  —  for  as  infinite  as  heaven's  blue, 


CRESSEID 

And  like  a  sea  that  never  had  a  shore, 

I  will  embrace  thee!"     "I  have  suffered  sore, 

Sweet    Death     .  .  .  how     beautiful     and    great 

thou  art ! 

Be  good  to  me  ...  for  I  am  thine  .  .  .  sweet- 
heart!" 

LXXI 

The  lepers  wrangled  long  above  the  gems 
While  the  strange-speaking  woman  now  lay  cold — 
Pearls  that  were  kingdoms  set  in  diadems, 
And  precious  stones  that  shone  in  baser  gold  .  . 
Then,  when  a  just  division  had  been  told, 
They  took  up  Cresseid  and  they  laid  her  low,  — 
Burying  her  where  none  may  ever  know. 


C$43 


HELEN  IN  HADES 


A 


LL  that  I  sought  was  peace  and  happiness, 
But  there  was  something  fatal  in  my  eyes 
And  maddening  in  my  mouth;  Men  grew  unwise 
And  crazed,  beholding  me,  and  Law  was  less 
Than  their  desire;  one  vagrant,  windy  tress, 
Or  my  unguarded  bosom's  rich  surprise 
Filled  each  man's  heart    with    visions    and    vain 

cries 
And  his  arms  rose  in  dreams  for  my  caress. 

Yea,  I  saw  neither  happiness  nor  peace 
But  hungry  faces  bright  as  swords  and  spears; 
I  was  the  White,  Unwilling  Storm  of  Greece; 
Tumult  tossed  round  me,  rising  with  the  years  .  .  . 
What  was  that  pale  boy's  name  the  gossips  set 
By  mine  ?  ...  we  dead  so  easily  forget ! 


CLEOPATRA,   DEAD 


D 


EATH,  hast  thou  felt  the  thrill  of  her  soft 
hand 

And  let  in  love  to  thy  forbidden  land  ? 
Ah,  if  thou  hast,  the  Queen  has  conquered  thee 
And  tipped  thy  darts  with  immortality! 


ZENOBIA 


Caesar's  legioned  army,  victor-led, 
A  sight  to  glad  and  pride  the  Roman  eye: 
Wrinkled  and  monster  elephants  sweep  by 
Making  the  earth  to  quake  beneath  their  tread; 
Caesar  himself,  with  laurel  on  his  head, 
Rides  next,  and  all  his  banners  flaunt  the  sky. 

But  now  the  eager  concourse  gapes  and  hums, 
For  She  who  makes  the  triumph-march  complete, 
Zenobia,  naked  and  imperial,  comes, 
With  gold  chains   chiming   from   her   hands   and 

feet- 

Her  kingdoms  overthrown,  herself  a  prize, 
Yet  no  capitulation  in  her  eyes. 


RESURRECTION 


I 


HOPE  there  is  a  resurrection  day 
For  bodies,  as  the  grey-beard  prophets  say, 
When  Helen's  naked  limbs  again  will  gleam 
Regathered  from  the  dust  of  death's  long  dream, 
And  all  the  olden  beauties,  being  fair, 
Will  take  the  watching  angels  unaware 
And  make  God's  heavenly  meadows  doubly  sweet 
With  rosy  vagrancy  of  little  feet. 


THE  EMPEROR  TO  HIS  LOVE 


i 


'VE  a  green  garden  with  a  grey  wall  'round 
Where  even  the  wind's  footfall  makes  no  sound; 
There  let  us  go  and  from  ambition  flee, 
Accepting  love's  brief  immortality. 
Let  other  rulers  hugely  labour  still 
Beneath  the  burden  of  ambition's  ill 
Like  caryatids  heaving  up  the  strain 
Of  mammoth  chambers,  till  they  stoop  again.  .  . 
Your    face    has    changed    my    days    to    splendid 

dreams 

And  baubled  trumpets,  traffics,  and  triremes: 
One  swift  touch  of  your  passion-parted  lips 
Is  worth  five  armies  and  ten  seas  of  ships. 


A  MEMORY  OF  A  FORMER  LIFE 


o 


FN  a  raft  of  reeds 

Where  Nineveh's  walls  looked  down 
I  lived  with  a  fisher-girl 
Whose  teeth  were  white  as  pearl 

Whose  body  was  berry-brown. 

But  how  many  children  we  had 
That's  what  I  do  not  know  — 
I've  died  so  many  times 
And  written  so  many  rhymes 
And  that  was  so  long  ago! 


THE  SONG  OF  RENSI,  PHARAOH'S 
LUTE-PLAYER 


K 


.ING   PHRA  had  twenty  dancing  girls 
And  I,  his  slave,  had  none: 
I  used  to  watch  their  shining  limbs 
That  glimmered  in  the  sun. 

King  Phra  had  twenty  dancing  girls 

That  glided  to  my  lute, 
And  every  way  they  moved  their  limbs 

I  made  a  sound  to  suit. 

King  Phra  had  twenty  dancing  girls 
Whose  feet  were  wandering  stars 

Whose  blossomed  breasts  were  circled  round 
With  bright  vermillion  bars. 

King  Phra  had  twenty  dancing  girls: 

His  wisdom  oft  I  sung  .  .  . 
But  I  was  wiser  than  the  king 

Because  I  held  my  tongue. 

King  Phra  had  twenty  dancing  girls  — 

And  he  was  old  and  grey,  — 
And  age  and  power  are  made  a  jest 

When  youth  sings  down  the  way! 


VILLON  SINGS 

W  ANDERING  along  the  king's  highway, 

The  ladies  all  to  me  were  kind; 
'T  is  word  enough  to  say  that  I 

Was  neither  halt,  nor  maim,  nor  blind. 

The  little  birds  they  sang  for  me, 

The  budding  hedgerow  flowers  were  seen 

In  red  and  white  and  purple  mists, 

And  there  were  herds  in  fields  of  green. 

The  world  was  mine  and  life  was  mine, 
My  heart  sang  like  bird-filled  tree, 

So  myriad-full  of  love,  the  King, 

Who  rode  by,  looked,  and  envied  me. 


C62H 


INVOCATION 


B 


RING  me  my  slender  reeds  to  blow  upon, 
A  lay  Til  make,  of  perfect  songs  the  king, 

Which    white-armed    girls    with    soft,    warm 

throats  will  sing 
To  ease  their  hearts  with,  when  I'm  dead  and  gone. 


C633 


LOVE  IN  HELL 


I 


N  the  storms  which  beat  on  the  shores  of  hell 
Great  devil-bats  go  flapping  by, 
And  boulderlike  hailstones  hiss  through  the  air 
And  tear  the  naked  sky. 

'Round  black  promontories  the  loud  winds  flare, 
On  which,  like  a  stream  of  living  leaves, 

Phantom  lovers  rustle  and  sigh 

Innumerably. 


£64} 


THERE  ARE  TWO  POWERS 


Ti 


HERE  are  two  powers  that  hold  me  with  a 

vow, 

There  are  two  spirits  that  compel  my  knee 
To  bend  before  their  sought  divinity: 
One  is  to  me  the  blossom  on  the  bough 
Of  an  else  barren  life;  one,  even  now, 
Is  the  last  recompense  of  God  to  me, — 
And  both  are  as  two  ships  hailed  far  at  sea 
By  wreck-cast  men  with  hands  strained  hard  at 

brow. 


So,  hour  by  holy  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
And  all  night  long  I  kneel  before  the  shrine 
Of  each  divinity,  and,  kneeling,  pray; 
And,  though  I  die,  —  immortal,  they  are  mine: 
Beauty,  bewildering  me  with  many  flowers, 
And  Love,  that  makes  eternal,  life's  few  hours! 


THE  FEW 


T, 


HERE  are  few  who  dare  to  climb 
The  mountain-tops 
Where  the  great,  blue  sky  begins 
And  all  space  stops, 

Where  the  winds  of  Being  blow 

And  wings  lift  free 
Against  audacious  stars 

That  kiss  infinitely. 


C66I] 


THE  WISE  MAN  SAID 


is  a  plague  that  brings  no  rest 
To  maddened  brain  and  fevered  breast,  — 
Rather  than  love  I  would  be  dead, 
'Twere  peace,  at  least,"  the  Wise  Man  said, 


"Is  love,  then,  the  worst  ill  that  Man 
Can  suffer  under  fate's  harsh  plan  ? " 
I  asked,  "Ah,  no,  —  a  greater  ill 
Exists,  to  which  this  evil  still 
Seems  happiness  —  'Tis  NOT  TO  BE 
IN  LOVE!"  the  Wise  Man  answered  me. 


AT  LAST  I   KNOW 


.     last  I  know  a  woman's  mind! 
There  is  no  power,  here  or  above, 
Can  make  her  see  —  if  she  be  blind, 
Or  make  her  hate  —  if  she  but  love. 

And  if  she  will  —  why  then  she  will, 
And  if  she  will  not,  what  can  bind? 

Much  like  a  man  I  find  her  still.  .  .  . 
At  last  I  know  a  woman's  mind  ! 


C683 


THE  PASSING  GOD 


H 


E  who  has  loved  for  one  immortal  hour 
Nor  asked  the  god  what  lay  beyond  his  power, 
Has  won  a  thing  past  all  computed  gain  - 
A  mood  that  casts  up  pearls  as  thick  as  rain; 
He  has  soared  forth  beyond  his  fellow  men 
And  been  some  other  bright  star's  citizen  .  .  . 
For  Love  moves  not  with  ledgers  in  his  mind; 
The  little  god  is  naked,  mad,  and  blind; 
He  is  no  smiting  whip,  no  breaking  rod  — 
He's  a  brief-granted,  flower-glimpse  of  God! 


THE  WAY 

O  get  Love,  one  must  come  on  it  unsought, 
The  ripe  fruit  falls  when  mellow,  not  before: 
For  it  cannot  be  stolen,  begged,  or  bought 
Without  some  taste  of  greenness  at  the  core. 


C703 


THE  RED  ROSE  CRIED 

v^/  COME  to  me,  my  Love,"  the  red  rose  cried; 
"I  fear  your  thorns,"  the  nightingale  replied.  .  .  . 

t 

"My  thorns  are  only  deadly  for  my  foes 
To  keep  myself  for  you,"  replied  the  rose. 


\XTHE  PASSING  FLOWER 


[  Baalbec  there  were  lovers 
Who  plucked  the  passing  flower; 
In  Sidon  and  Palmyra 

Each  flushed,  immortal  hour 

Was  gathered  in  the  passing; 

In  Greece  and  Rome  they  knew 
That  from  the  living  Present 

The  whitest  blossoms  grew. 

The  countless  generations 
Like  Autumn  leaves  go  by: 

Love  only  is  eternal, 

Love  only  does  not  die.  .  .  . 

I  hear  the  dying  nations 
Go  by  on  phantom  feet  - 

But  still  the  rose  is  fragrant, 
And  still  a  kiss  is  sweet! 


EROS  SINGS 


T, 


HOUGH  death  still  rages 
(Still,  as  of  old), 
I  have  scattered  his  pages 
With  dust  of  gold. 

Though  the  great,  dark  wing  of  him 

Shadow  Man's  bliss, 
I  have  drawn  the  sting  of  him 

With  a  kiss. 


C733 


INNUMERABILITY 

VVNE  kiss!  .  .  .  one  kiss  is  not  enough: 

Suppose  the  sea  should  say 
Unto  the  shore  —  "I've  sent  one  wave,  — 

That's  all  you'll  get  to-day!" 


C74] 


OLD-FASHIONED   FLOWER-SONG 

r  OR  dawn,  a  waiting  hush  of  skies, 
For  trees,  a  wind  that  blows, 

For  clouds,  the  color-making  sun,  — 
And  for  my  Love,  a  rose ! 

For  him  who  dreams,  a  quiet  nook 

Wherein  a  fire  glows, 
For  him  who  rides,  an  open  way,  — 

And  for  my  Love,  a  rose! 

A  hand-clasp  for  a  world  chance-met, 
And  hate  for  hate,  for  foes, 

An  easy  pipe  and  glass  for  friends,  - 
And  for  my  Love,  a  rose ! 


MAD-MEN 


D 


EAR,  it  is  good  that  lovers  should  go  mad, — 
The  world  swings  else  to  so  well-ordered  law 
That  God  must  find  some  way  to  strike  with  awe 
Its  multitudes.     The  West,  in  sunsets  clad, 
The  East,  in  morning,  —  once  a  power  these  had 
Over  the  souls  of  men  .  .  .  but  now  they  draw 
Their   vestitures    in    vain  .  .  .  once    men's   eyes 

saw 
The  naked  moon,  and  beauty  made  them  glad. 

But  now  how  few  there  are  whom  starlight  moves: 
So,  mid  the  gold-struck  peoples,  it  behooves 
Life's  purpose  well  that  mad-men  here  and  there 
Should  rise  among  them,  testifying  this: 
That  solid  things  are  bubbles  hung  in  air 
When  Love  can  capture  heaven  with  a  kiss. 


C76] 


PURITY 


BE 


pure,  sweetheart,  but  not  like  snow 
Which  soon  its  whiteness  must  forego  — 
Be  fierce  and  pure  as  fire  may  be 
Which  burns  away  impurity. 


C773 


YOUNG  MAN'S  SONG 

V-/  TIME  has  lightning  in  its  wing, 
And  pleasure  is  a  fragile  thing 
That  breaks  in  clutching;  beauty's  face 
Carries  a  skull  behind  its  grace: 
Then  where's  a  better  reason  why 
I  should  love  beauty  ere  it  die, 
Lift  brighter  torches  in  the  night 
And  seize  on  joy  in  time's  despite? 


C78] 


WHEN  SILENT  IS  THE  SINGER 


w 


HEN  silent  is  the  singer 
And  broken  is  the  lute 
Say  not  the  song  was  nothing 
And  vain  the  far  pursuit; 

When  love's  brief  rose  has  faded 
Say  never  "it  was  naught !"  — 

Say  rather  that  each  moment 
Was  worth  the  joy  it  brought! 


A  CRUEL  THING 


fOVE  is  a  cruel  thing 
And  jesting  is  his  trade: 
My  sweetheart  loves  another  man, 
And  he,  another  maid.  .  .  . 

And  yet  there  is  a  way 

To  thwart  his  wanton  will  — 

Tis  not  to  be  in  love  at  all: 
And  that  is  crueller  still. 


WHY  SHOULD  I  LISTEN? 


W 


HY  should  I  listen  to  the  Wise 
Though  every  word  they  say  is  true  ?  .  .  . 
I  grant  that  Love  is  king  of  lies, 
And  that  his  greatest  lie  is  —  you ! 

The  old  men  lift  their  warning  hands, 

They  move  their  mouths  and  tell  of  shame 

Yet  there's  not  one  but  understands 
If  he  were  young  he'd  do  the  same. 

In  vain  the  generations  learn, 

In  vain  men  mete  each  sober  rule,  — 

Ah,  who  would  not  grave  counsels  spurn 
When  'tis  so  sweet  to  be  a  fool! 


GREEK  VINTAGE  SONG 


B 


'LUSHING  maiden,  laughing  boy, 
Tread  the  ripened  grapes  of  joy 
Till  unto  your  naked  thighs 
Spurted  jets  of  purple  rise  - 
Was  it  not  for  this  the  grape 
Gathered  its  voluptuous  shape? 


C82] 


ADMONITION 


o 


MOURN  not  if  her  face  be  a  brief  flower, 
O,  mourn  not  if  her  beauty  drop  away,  — 
Who  would  forego  the  rose's  perfect  hour 
Because  she  does  not  hold  her  pomp  for  aye? 

The  gods  pass  with  their  fading  altar-fires, 

They  fear  their  dark  descent  in  their  bright 

prime  .  .  . 

Unleash  the  white,  swift  hounds  of  soft  desires 
And  when  life's  hour  strikes  "LOVE"  think 
not  of  time. 


THE  REASON 

AFTER  A   SAPPHIC    FRAGMENT 


Yo, 


were  to  me  so  quaint  and  small 
I  never  thought  of  you  at  all 
Save  as  a  child  .  .  .  but  Life,  that  wakes 
The  white,  sweet  blossoming  of  brakes, 
The  windy  flower  on  the  wall,  - 
Made  you  grow  white  and  fair  and  tall. 

You  were  to  me  so  quaint  and  small 
I  never  thought  of  you  at  all  ... 
In  the  full  blossom  of  your  day 
It  is  not  strange  you  turned  away 
Nor  heard  my  heart's  awakened  call 
When  you  were  white  and  fair  and  tall. 


TO  THINK  THAT  SOMEWHERE 


T. 


O  think  that  somewhere  now  you  wait  for  me, 
This  very  month,  this  week,  this  day,  this  hour,  — 
That  slowly  you  come  into  perfect  flower, 
As  perfect  as  a  woman's  growth  may  be, 
Dreaming,  in  uncompanioned  ecstasy, 
How  some  day  you  will  yield  that  richest  dower, 
Yourself,  to  love's  supreme  and  utmost  power,  — 
This,  in  its  very  joy,  is  agony ! 

And  yet  —  to  fear  that  your  white,  alien  feet 
Might  go  down  some  unknown,  diverging  way 
Straying  a  little  further,  day  by  day, 
From  the  appointed  place  where  we  should  meet  - 
This  is  too  deep  a  hell  ...  it  were  not  best 
To  think  that  God  could  wreak  so  sad  a  jest! 


AND  IS  IT  TRUE? 


A 


ND  is  it  true  you  smoothed  your  hair 
And  never  thought  of  me, 
Or  walked  abroad  when  noon  was  white 
Nor  knew  what  yet  must  be?  ... 

I  look  on  every  day  as  lost 

Before  my  knowledge  grew 
That,  on  the  common  earth  there  walked 

The  Vision  that  is  you! 


C86] 


A  QUEEN  DIED  LONG  AGO 


A 


QUEEN  died  long  ago 
As  fair  as  you  are  fair, 
Of  kindred  white  her  brow, 
And  gold,  like  yours,  her  hair. 

Her  face  is  but  a  dream, 

Her  little  mouth  is  dust.  .  .  . 

O,  let  us  kiss  and  kiss 
Since  death  is  so  unjust. 


C873 


HERMITAGE 


O 


,  FOR  a  country  place  I  know 
Where  elms  stand  in  a  windy  row, 
Where  larches  frame  the  crimson  sun 
And  maples  turn  vermillion 
And  branchy  oaks  stand  wide  and  still 
Each  like  a  green,  inverted  hill: 
There,  when  I'd  dreamed  a  day  or  two, 
I  'd  have  a  room  made  neat  for  you  — 
For  trees  they  are  such  lonely  things 
With  all  their  leaves  and  whisperings. 


TO  MYRRHA 


Y 


OU  are  my  ceaseless  litany 
That  I  will  sing  before  all  men,  — 
And,  dear,  if  you  believe  in  God, 
I'll  be  your  Christian  then; 

And  I  will  kneel  by  you,  my  Love,  — 
Will  pray,  contrite  and  hushed,  by  you, 

If  not,  a  pagan  I  will  be 

And  heaven  will  fail  by  two! 


C893 


i 


TO  

WAS  the  servant  of  a  dream 


Until  you  brought  to  me 
The  splendid  vision  of  your  face  — 
Then  dawned  Reality; 

Not  She  whose  empty  shrines  of  Fact 
The  world's  blind  fools  adore,  — 

Reality  so  high,  so  true 
That  dreams  avail  no  more. 


C90] 


LITTLE  THINGS 


is  but  a  little  thing 
That  God  takes  like  a  ball 
To  toss  up  for  a  moment's  flight 
And  laugh  to  see  it  fall. 

Love  is  but  a  little  thing, 
It  is  a  tossed-up  ball,  — 

Yet  it  embraces  life  and  hope, 
The  world,  and  God,  and  ALL! 


THE  LIFE  OF  LOVE 

•/ 

A  HE  life  of  love  is  the  life  of  a  flower 
That  lifts  to  the  touch  of  the  sun   and   the 

moon. 
The  life  of  love  is  the  joy  of  an  hour, 

The  strain  of  a  flute  or  a  viol's  sweet  tune: 

The  flower  dies  at  the  dawn's  red  heart, 
And  sorrow  kisses  fair  joy  to  death; 

The  viol-sound's  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  mart; 
The  flute-voice  dies  with  the  player's  breath. 


NO  QUALMS 


i 


HAVE  no  qualms  for  any  gift  love  bring, 
Whether  he  make  me  wail,  or  rage,  or  sing. 
I  would  not  merely  seek  the  Docile  out  .  .  . 
There  is,  I  think,  some  merit  in  the  shout 
That  tears  the  ear,  some  music  in  the  pain 
That  roars  on  the  soul's  windows  with  its  rain. 


YOU  LOVE  ME  AND  I  AM  AFRAID 


Y 


OU  love  me,  and  I  am  afraid 
To  take  your  mouth  and  rouse  your  soul 
Though  it  be  lifted  up  to  me 

As  those  who  drink  wine  lift  a  bowl. 

You  love  me,  and  I  am  afraid : 

Though  you  protest  it's  nothing  more 

Than  friendship,  —  I  have  heard  a-far 
The  opening  of  an  unseen  door; 

You  love  me,  and  I  am  afraid 

Of  love's  disaster  treading  near  — 

If  you  were  not  so  beautiful, 

So  young,  and  blind,  —  you  too  would  fear! 


C943 


NIGHTMARE 


OHE  bade  him  wait,  while  other  men 
Who  did  not  care,  had  all  their  will; 
He  was  as  patient  as  a  corpse 
Whose  face  shows  white  and  still; 

His  passion  was  a  fatal  thing; 

For,  blinded,  still  he  followed  her,  — 
Each  whim  of  hers,  a  holy  Cause, 

And  he,  its  minister. 

Her  little  mouth,  her  small,  white  hands 
Were  holier  to  him  than  shrines 

Where,  in  each  dim  and  hallowed  niche 
A  sacred  taper  shines.  .  .  . 

Her  little  mouth  —  she  gave  to  all! 

Her  little  hands  —  as  free  as  air!  .  .  . 
To  him  as  inaccessible 

As  God  is  to  a  prayer!'*  .  .  . 

O,  you  are  perfect,  you  are  pure; 

I  think  that  you  are  strong  and  true, — 
And  yet,  last  night  I  dreamed  these  things 

And  was  afraid  of  you. 

C953 


WHY  HAVE  YOU  COME  TO  ME? 


w 


HY   have  you   come   to  me,   you   lovely 

thing, 

Making  my  heart  leap  and  my  pulses  sing? 
Why  have  you  come  to  me  to  bid  me  say 
"My  life  is  now  as  nothing  till  to-day"? 
All  that  I've  ever  dreamed  or  hoped  or  done 
Is  like  a  night  that  yearns  toward  the  sun; 
All  that  I've  ever  thought  or  felt  or  known 
Is  aimless  thistledown  o'er  waters  blown. 
Why  did  I  never  know,  not  ever  see 
That,  on  this  day  of  days,  you  waited  me? 
By  storms  and  tumults  of  your  beauty  torn, 
Now  I  shall  wish  that  I  was  never  born, 
Then,  in  the  same  breath,  thank  what  gods  there 

be 
That,  at  this  great  hour,  you  were  given  me! 


THE  MOTH'S  COMPLAINT 

T 

JL   HE  butterfly  is  slain,  they  say, 

By  the  first  breath  of  cold  — 
But,  O,  for  his  one  perfect  day 
On  wings  of  braided  gold ! 


C97] 


OLD  SONG 


w 


HEN  the  worm  has  banqueted 
Where  will  be  your  beauty  then, 
All  that  lovely  white  and  red 
Held  so  high  in  praise  of  men? 

That  which  you  think  lasting  now 
Will  no  more  with  magic  bind: 

Sweet-curved  lips,  and  eyes,  and  brow 
Gone  like  music  on  the  wind. 


C98] 


TO  PASSION 


Y 


OU  beautiful,  consuming  thing, 
You  are  a  power,  you  are  a  wing 

Uplifting  me,  — 
I've  never  held  you  vile  or  base 
Because  you  stayed  in  no  one  place, 

But  footed  free! 


C993 


CONSUMMATION 


W 


AVES  of  unutterable  ecstasy 
Shake  through  my  yielded  body,  as  a  sea, 
Moonlight,  sweeps  in  against  an  island  bar, 
Its  every  atom  trembling  with  a  star,  — 
Or  as  a  singing,  leaping  shower  of  rain, 
Misted  with  iris  like  a  peacock's  train, 
Comes  softly  on  the  dry  trees  sick  with  heat 
And  all  the  long,  white  stretches  of  the  street. 


Cioo] 


POSSESSION 


)VE  me  or  love  me  not,  for  I  no  longer  care: 
You  have  been,  ever  will  be,  mine; 
There  is  no  dream  of  mine  but  you  must  share; 
Love  breaks  all  bounds;  he  is  divine. 

Nay,  when  I  had  you,  dear,  I  know  I  held  you 
not,  — 

But,  having  passed  beyond  my  sight, 
Your  spirit,  merging  with  my  inmost  thought, 

Opened  to  me  the  Infinite. 

You  are  the  sky,  the  clouds,  you  are  the  singing 
birds, 

The  hills,  the  trees,  the  plain, 
My  hopes,  my  aspirations  passing  words,  — 

Our  love  was  not  in  vain ! 


O,  TELL  ME  NOT 


o 


TELL  me  not,  dear,  to  forget : 
Let  me  remember  still 
The  hands  that  parted  as  they  met, 
The  sweet  and  froward  will. 

Give  me  your  memory  in  trust 
While  we  still  move  with  men  — 

When  you  are  dust  and  I  am  dust, 
It  will  not  matter  then. 


CI02] 


A  DREAM  OF  INCONSTANCY 


i 


HAD  a  dream  you  were  unfaithful  to  me 
With  some  rare  lover  of  a  godlike  mien, 
That  there  were  stars   and  wonder,  youth   and 

moonlight 
As  once  with  us  had  been; 

I  woke  from  bitter  visions  in  the  darkness, 
From  visions  bitter,  and  yet  sweet,  to  me: 

I  watched  your  sleeping  face,  if  I  could  find  there 
Some  hushed  inconstancy! 


£1033 


WHEN  THAT  WHICH  COULD  NOT  BE 


w 


HEN  that  which  could  not  be  has  come 
to  pass 

And  you  look  frightened  in  the  usual  glass 
To  find  a  different  man  or  woman  there,  — 
Then,  from  your  soul,  you'll  offer  God  a  prayer 
(You,  whose  heart  sang  with  music  yesterday) 
To  help  you  walk,  alone,  life's  bitter  way, 
In  vain  repentant  for  the  slow,  unkind 
Insistence  that  forced  sight  on  love  that's  blind. 


ON  THOUGHTS  OF  SUICIDE 


N 


AY,  I  might  still  be  prisoned 
Upon  my  ancient  rack, 
Till,  quenched  unto  its  very  roots, 
The  fires  of  Hell  went  black! 


£105:1 


RETALIATION 


-/ADY, 


I  have  loved  overmuch 

I  think,  in  ever  loving  you, 
Responded  to  the  lightest  touch 

Of  all  your  whims,  been  far  too  true. 
Now  it  shall  be  your  turn  to  rue 
The  looks  that  burn,  the  wiles  that  slay  — 
For  love's  a  game  that  two  can  play. 

Since  begging  has  not  got  my  will, 
Since  following  your  wayward  feet 

Has  only  led  me  further  still 

From  consummations  men  hold  meet, 
I  will  no  longer  now  entreat,  - 

I'll  torture  you  the  selfsame  way  - 

Since  love's  a  game  that  two  can  play. 

/ 

1  /Now  YOU  shall  know  whole  nights  awake, 
\/     Great,  barren  dawns  that  surge  and  roll 
Like  huge,  recurrent  waves  that  take 

A  ship,  nor  leave  one  plank  that's  whole,- 
Just  nigh  the  harbour's  sheltered  goal  .  . 
And  7  shall  laugh  and  you  shall  pray  - 
Since  love's  a  game  that  two  can  play! 


VARIETY 


i 


F  there  were  not  some  bitterness  in  love, 
If  it  were  like  white  honey  wholly  sweet, 
If  there  fell  not  across  its  shining  fields 

Some  shadow  of  the  sinking  sun's  retreat,  — 

Its  long  continuance  of  light  would  pall, 

Its  honey-heavy  kiss  ache  through  with  sorrow, 

And  so  I  love  you  better,  dear,  today, 

Because  I  know  not  what  may  be  tomorrow. 


£1073 


FANTASIA 


W 


HEN  hosts  of  alien  suns 
Their  shining  lamps  up-thrust 
And  the  solar  system  breaks 
Into  drifts  of  silver  dust 

In  the  gaze  of  other  worlds 
To  burst  forth  and  expire 

And  stain  the  sable  night 

With  trailing  ghosts  of  fire,  — 

Where  will  be  this  heart,  then, 
This  mad,  impassioned  brain 

That  flared  high  like  a  windy  dawn 
After  a  night's  black  rain  ?  .  .  . 

And  will  I  then  look  upward, 
In  strange,  sweet  flesh  re-born 

While  ten  undreamed-of  senses 
Put  this  poor  Five  to  scorn, 

As  that  far  world  I  lived  in 
Comes  leaping  from  the  night 

And  bursts,  a  tiny  blossom, 
Into  a  moment's  sight? 


YOU 


I 


F  I  tapped  blind  among  the  Blind 
And  you  swept  like  a  shadow  by 
Nor  glanced  at  me  — 

That  would  put  seeing  in  my  eye. 

If  I  were  turned  to  bones  and  dust, 
O,  breaker  of  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  you  drew  nigh  — 

I'd  gather  into  life  again! 


CI093 


LOVE  ME 


)VE  me  a  day,  a  week,  a  month,  a  year,  - 
If  you  but  love  me,  that  is  all  I  care. 
I  seek  no  irrecoverable  oath 
Such  as  Immortals  swear; 

For  if  you  kiss  me  once,  and  then  depart, 

Or  hold  me  but  a  day, 
It  will  be  more  than  duty  chained  for  life 

By  what  the  world  might  say. 

Love  me  a  day,  a  week,  a  month,  a  year,  — 
Then,  ere  we  know  it,  time  will  cease  to  be, 

And  we  will  laugh  like  children  in  the  sun, 
Thieves  of  eternity! 


THE  WIND'S  DEATH 


T 


HE  Wind  died  yesterday 
And  it  will  blow  no  more 
The  heaping  little  silver  waves 
Against  the  shining  shore. 

The  Wind  died  yesterday: 

It  will  no  longer  run 
Along  the  purple-shadowed  grass 

And  chase  the  laughing  sun. 

The  Wind  died  yesterday 

That  piled  the  sky  with  light 
And  sent  the  silver-bodied  clouds 

Like  solemn  swans  in  flight. 

The  Wind  died  yesterday 

And  stark  the  forests  sleep, 
Their  blowing  summits  surge  no  more 

With  tumults  golden-deep  .  .  . 

O,  Wind,  arise  again 

And  brighten  all  the  air: 
Strike  silver  motions  through  the  trees, 

Wake  colors  everywhere: 

Purple  and  Green  and  Gold 

Wait  your  creative  breath!  .  .  . 

O,  Wind  of  Love,  strike  through  my  soul  — 
Without  you,  all  is  death! 

Cm  3 


i/   LOVE-FAITH 


N, 


OW  that  you  would  leave  me 
And  another  woo, 
Was  it  you  that  told  me  once 
Lovers  should  be  true? 

Was  it  you  that  told  me 

Lovers  should  be  true?  — 

Dear,  I  still  believe  in  Love, 
But  no  more  —  in  you ! 


> 

DEFEAT 


-JET 


us  shut  out  the  dark  a  little  while, 
Let  us  shut  out  a  while  the  blaring  day 
That  has  come  down  upon  us  ...  you,  you  smile 
A  pitiless  smile  —  there  is  no  more  to  say. 

I've  fought  and  fought  for  you  —  and  fought  in 

vain, 
And  all  night  long  I've  knocked  at  your  heart's 

door 

Begging  you  take  a  moment's  thought  again, 
Asking  for  that  which  you  could  give  no  more. 

The  other  one  —  what  has  he  that  I  lack? 

No!  ...  I  begin  again!  ...  I  must  be  still: 
And  yet,  if  I  could  win  one  least  kiss  back, 

I  would  forever  serve  your  littlest  will! 


V   ALIENATION 


G, 


O,  I  will  shut  the  windows 
And  draw  the  blinds  for  gloom. 
Go,  for  the  flower  has  fallen 

That  filled  two  lives  with  bloom. 

For  me  wait  other  women, 

For  you  wait  other  men  .  .  . 

But  the  ghosts  of  our  old  madness 
Will  rise  and  walk  again. 


I  THOUGHT  THAT  IT  WOULD 
NEVER  CEASE 


I 


THOUGHT  that  it  would  never  cease  to  be, 
The  love  I  held  for  you,  you  held  for  me,  — 
But,  as  the  body's  unperceived  decay 
Slips  grave-ward,  so  our  young  love  passed  away 
Till  that  which  came,  born  bright  with  Summer 

hours, 
Went    out,    an    infant    hearse,    all    white    with 

flowers  ... 
"Whose   child   is   that?"    I  asked  .  .  .  and   you 

replied 
"It   is    our   child  —  our   poor,    weak   Love   that 

died!" 


THE  RETURN 


OHE  whom  I  loved  is  coming  back  to  me! 
Once  more  her  cloudy  head  of  hair  will  be 
Poured  on  my  shoulder,  and  my  life's  long  drouth 
Made  satiate  of  the  soft  wine  of  her  mouth. 

Full  many  are  the  bitter  nights  I've  lain 

Longing  for  her  white,  little  hands  in  vain, 

Until  I  fell  asleep,  and  dreams,  more  kind 

Than  waking,  brought  her  back  to  my  glad  mind, 

And  I  was  happy  with  her  till  the  grey 

And  languid  disillusionment  of  day. 

Yet,  now  that  she  is  coming  back  to  me, 

\  dread  the  Dark  of  fresh  calamity: 

Shall  I  not  fear  the  mixing  of  a  kiss 

With  that  same  mouth  that  gave  Another  bliss? 

Will  not  another's  face  crowd  in  between 

My  face  and  hers,  —  another's  arms,  unseen, 

Go  round  her,  thwarting  mine  unpityingly.  .  .  . 

When  she  whom  I  have  loved  comes  back  to  me? 


WHY  SHOULD  WE  STRIVE 


W 


HY  should  we  strive  to  raise  again 
The  ghost  that  time  has  laid, 
Going  like  people  in  the  dark 
Of  every  sound  afraid, 

With  here  an  old,  familiar  kiss, 

Long  buried  in  the  night, 
And  there  a  grey,  revived  caress 

Estranged  from  all  delight?  .  .  . 

I  once  knew  one  who  waked  a  love 

No  longer  glad  and  gay 
And  it  was  dreadful  as  a  ghost 

That  walked  abroad  in  day. 


THE  IRONY 


T 


HOUGH    you    are    everything    that    truth 

holds  base, 

Because  of  your  insuperable  face 
Men  have  tossed  life-long  honor  into  air 
And  youth  has  saddened  to  grey-voiced  despair, 
And  slunk  forth,  hollow-eyed,  to  pine  and  die, 
Proclaiming  love  to  be  life's  vilest  lie. 

You  have  accepted  all  that's  high  and  good, 
Then  turned  it  to  the  Dark's  similitude, 
Making  a  doubtful  jest,  like  sour,  spilt  wine, 
Of  all  that  broken  hearts  once  held  divine. 

And  yet,  because  I  must  be  proud  and  brave, 
I  shall  go  singing  of  you  to  my  grave, 
Love-sick,  with  rhymed,  immortal  lies  of  you: 
And  fools  shall  read,  and  shall  believe  them  true! 


i 


TO  ATTHIS 

AFTER   A   SAPPHIC    FRAGMENT 


LOVED  you,  Atthis,  long  ago: 
If  men  Jiad  told  me  time  would  be 
When  we  would  love  not,  I  had  said 
Rather  shall  death  not  cleave  to  me. 
Aye,  lies  were  true;  mine  eyes  did  see 
Eternal  love  (if  days  were  so)  ... 
I  loved  you,  Atthis,  long  ago. 

I  loved  you,  Atthis,  long  ago  .  .  . 

In  vast  confusion  of  retreat 

My  songs  and  dreams  forsook  me,  then, 

And  day  and  night  the  breaking,  sweet 

Music  of  madness  set  my  feet 

To  measures  paced  in  chains  of  woe  .  . 

I  loved  you,  Atthis,  long  ago. 

I  loved  you,  Atthis,  long  ago; 
Alas,  that  so  strong  love  were  vain  .  .  . 
*  Those  violet-woven  days  are  gone 
Like  last  year's  roses,  last  year's  rain  . 
Gone,  too,  the  sorrow  and  the  pain 
That  broke  me  like  a  Cretan  bow  .  .  . 
I  loved  you,  Atthis,  long  ago! 


THE  RAINBOW 


W 


HEN  I  beheld  the  rainbow 
Flung  brightly  through  the  sky 
I  saw  in  it  a  promise 
That  love  can  never  die. 

I  told  my  hope  to  Flora, 

Then,  one  next  summer's  day 

I  pointed  up  to  heaven 
And  said  the  same  to  May. 

Since  then  I've  changed  my  fancy 

Of  times  an  honest  score: 
Yet  nothing  that  could  happen 

Could  change  my  first-learned  lore. 

I've  kissed,  I've  laughed,  I've  suffered 
And  none  knows  more  than  I 

The  rainbow  keeps  his  promise 
That  LOVE  can  never  die. 


THE   PUZZLE 


nr\ 


L  HE  woman  that  I  have  I  do  not  want, 
The  woman  that  I  have  not  wears  me  gaunt. 
And  so  we  foolish  poets  are  undone 
Like  crying  children  reaching  for  the  sun. 


i 


/THE  LESSON 


WISH  that  love  were  but  the  joy 
That  careless  poets  say, 
That  sips  the  honey  from  the  heart, 
Then  lightly  wings  away. 

I  never  knew  a  thing  that  gave 
Such  pleasure  kin  to  pain  — 

If  ever  I  get  free  of  him 
I'll  never  love  again. 


CI22] 


I  PROMISED  IN  MY  PASSION 


i 


PROMISED  in  my  passion 
That  I'd  be  true  to  May; 
I  vowed  the  same  to  Alice, 
I  think,  but  yesterday.  .  .  . 

O,  I've  begun  a  ballad 

That  all  the  world  shall  sing  — 
"If  love  kept  all  his  pledges 

He's  be  a  beggared  king." 


FOLLY 


I 


LOVE  the  folly  of  women, 
I  love  the  folly  of  men, 
That  never  heeded  precept, 
But  played  the  fool  again. 

I  love  the  folly  of  women 
That  will  not  pause  to  think, 

And  the  light  foot  that  covets 
The  precipice's  brink. 

O,  when  I'm  lying  silent 
Upon  my  still,  black  bier, 

Don't  tell  them  of  my  learning, 
As  you  hold  heaven  dear, 

Don't  say  that  I  was  perfect 
Nor  lie  of  ordered  days, 

When  good  wine  was  my  glory 
And  madness  led  my  ways. 

If  you  dare  lie  about  me 
May  God  requite  you  so. 

Just  say  that  I  was  human  — 
Then  fold  rny  hands,  and  go. 


SUN  AND  RAIN 


T 


HE  rain  that  blows  in  grey  gusts  over  the 

world, 

It  never  makes  me  sad. 
I  know  it  wakens  every  bud  up-curled 
Whose  flower  will  make  me  glad. 

But  when  the  sun  clothes  earth  and  air  with  gold 

Then  chiefly  am  I  sad, 
Dreaming  of  days  the  Past's  great  Dark  doth  hold 

And  perished  love  I  had. 


'HEART-BREAK 


1.   IE!     For  shame  —  to  curse  all  women 
Just  because  one  broke  your  heart. 

Would  you  go  and  drop  to  nothing? 
Still  there's  life,  and  work,  and  art. 

Pluck  up  courage,  give  up  grieving, 
Come  and  join  the  world  of  men. 

Somewhere,  there's  another  waiting  — 
She  will  break  your  heart  again! 


C  126:] 


DELUDED 


H 


.OW  have  I  been  deluded 
And  broken  in  my  pride 
By  eyes  that  falsely  looked  the  truth, 
By  wanton  lips  that  lied. 

How  have  I  been  deluded 

By  kisses  in  the  night,  — 
How  many  a  full-blown  rose  I've  lost 

By  blossom-plucked  delight  .  .  . 

By  women,  by  women 

How  have  I  been  betrayed!  .  .  . 
And  how  I  fear  God's  lightnings  yet 

For  the  lies  I,  too,  have  made! 


ADJURATION 


shut  close  in  a  coffin, 
In  the  old,  grewsome  fashion, 
This  death-grey  body  that  once  thrilled 

With  life's  sweet  gift  of  passion. 
Don't  let  them  lay  me  shallow-deep 
Where  all  the  ordered  good  folk  sleep. 

But  bury  me  in  roses 

In  some  wrecked  garden-close, 
The  home  of  booming  beetle 

And  bedraggled,  wind-swept  rose. 


THE  GUESTLESS   ROOM 

AT  cannot  be  again, 

I  have  loved  too  much,  too  long; 
I  have  banished  love,  today, 

Forever,  from  my  song. 

He  shall  no  more  have  place 
Within  my  heart  or  brain: 

Let  him  arise  and  go 
To  one  who  is  more  fain 

Of  his  cries  and  tears  and  lies, 
Of  the  Mocking  in  his  face  — 

I  have  swept  my  heart  of  him, 
No  more  his  dwelling  place  .  .  . 

Nay,  now  he's  gone,  I  fear 

That  soon,  through  my  life's  door, 
He'll  enter  Scripture-wise, 

With  twenty  devils  more. 


C  129] 


IN  LOVE  AGAIN 


o 


UT  of  my  heart  there  lifts  that  flower 
Whose  blossom  is  belief  in  men, 
Whose  very  stalk  I  thought  was  dead  — 
'Faith,  I  must  be  in  love  again. 


DIALOGUE 
TP 

Ji-   HE  moon  brings  pallid  gifts  of  sleep 
And  dreams  of  wan  desire  - 
Nay,  you  malign  her,  she,  who  is 
Love's  everlasting  fire. 

I  swear  the  moon's  a  silver  world 

Whose  only  life  is  light  — 
Nay,  she  is  an  eternal  lamp 

For  lovers'  raptured  sight. 

She  whom  I  loved  has  left  my  arms, 

And  life's  a  broken  tune  - 
I  thought  as  much,  and  now  I  know 

Why  you  maligned  the  moon ! 


WITHOUT  INCONSTANCY 

VV  HERE  do  you  sail,  O  friend  of  mine?  — 

I  sail  where  love  is  all. 
And  do  you  think  to  find  such  place  upon  this 

whirling  ball? 
—  I  know  not.     I  but  trust  in  Him,  he  takes  the 

helm  and  steers. 
Love  is  a  thing  of  days,  my  friend,  but  life's  a 

thing  of  years.  .  .  . 
On  many  a  ship  of  dreams  I've  sailed  to  many  an 

alien  strand, 
And  I've  grown  grey  with  pilgrimage,  yet  know 

I  not  that  land 
Where  love  holds  sway  beyond  the  day  —  Nay, 

I  would  still  be  bold! 

And  so  my  friend  puts  bravely  forth  with  mast 

of  beaten  gold, 
With  hull  of  hollow  pearl  and  sail  of  silk-stuffs 

woven  fine, 
Where  the  reef  flashes  colors  mid  a  sea  of  troubled 

wine, 
Where  storms  their  darkened  brows  impend,  — 

for  he  must  learn,  as  we, 
That  Love  indeed  were  less  than  love  without 

inconstancy. 


I  HELD  LOVE  USUAL 


I 


HELD  love  usual  as  the  sun 
And  lightly  scanned  his  lore,  — 
And  yesterday  he  left  my  heart, 
Left,  to  return  no  more. 

Like  all  things  life  holds  commonplace 

He  seemed  of  little  worth : 
The  world  cast  out  the  God  of  Gods 
When  He  was  on  the  earth. 


THE   PROTEAN  HEART 


i 


LOATHE  the  beauty  of  the  rose, 
I  love  not  any  flower  that  blows. 
Let  the  sun  set,  —  I  will  not  stay 
To  watch  the  going  of  the  day 
Like  a  great  ship  that  pirates  burn.  . 
I  love,  and  am  not  loved  in  turn. 

I  would  not  miss  the  budding  rose 
Nor  any  common  flower  that  blows: 
The  sun  has  set?     Then  I  will  stay 
To  view  the  vast  re-birth  of  day; 
In  me  what  dawns  of  beauty  burn,  — 
I  love,  and  I  am  loved  in  turn. 


/LOVE  PAYS 

-L/OVE  pays  for  all  his  singing  fire, 

His  gold  and  trinkets  gay, 
With  burnt-out  ashes  of  desire 
And  broken  feet  of  clay. 

Love  pays  for  all  his  singing  fire 
With  day  on  listless  day  — 

Yet  only  those  without  desire 
Are  those  who  fear  to  play. 


THE  WHEEL 


C 


lOME  out  into  the  hilltops, 
Whom  life  has  tossed  and  torn, 
The  stars'  supreme  derision 
Will  laugh  your  love  to  scorn; 

You'll  feel  the  earth  roll  under 
As  it  goes  down  through  space; 

The  moon,  a  world  that  perished, 
Will  shine  against  your  face  — 

Where  men,  like  you,  grown  bitter 
From  love's  unending  woe, 

Walked  sadly  in  the  starlight 
Ten  million  years  ago. 


£136:1 


IGNORANCE 


H 


.OW  ignorant  was  I 
Of  love's  most  simple  lore, 
Who,  when  a  day  had  passed, 
Thought  light  would  be  no  more, 

For,  when  the  sun  went  down, 
And  night  came  on  apace, 

A  hundred  thousand  stars 
Revealed  unending  space. 


WHAT  ELSE  TO  DO? 


R 


.OMANCE  knocks  at  the  heart  so  many  times, 
And,  after  one  has  written  rhymes  on  rhymes, 

One  wearies  of  it  all, 

Knowing  that  after  love's  first,  sweet  surprise 
There  wait  the  stratagems,  deceits,  and  lies 

That  soon  turn  sweet  to  gall. 

There  is  one  worse  thing  only,  still  to  hold 
One's  hands  out  toward  a  fire  that's  black  and 
cold, 

To  dead  love  falsely  true.  .  .  . 
Then  let  them  say  their  say,  —  what  else  remains, 
After  one  has  drunk  old  love  to  the  drains, 

But  to  seek  out  a  new? 


THE  MISTAKE 


UEST 


love  should  give  immortal  life 
The  gods  sent  woe,  then  hate,  then  strife, 
Suspicion,  falsehood,  jealofosy  — .  „ 
Poor  lad,  they  blame  them  all  on  thee! 


CI393 


THE  GHOST 


OHE'D  left  a  note  .  .  .  forever  gone  .  .  . 

The  drear  monotony  of  the  rain 
Crowded,  with  its  incessant  blur, 

The  drumming,  dripping  window  pane  .  . 
Each  echo  was  a  thought  of  her. 

The  house  was  full  of  little  sounds. 

The  red  fire  dwindled,  spark  by  spark, 
As  daylight,  stricken  gray  at  birth, 

Was  gathered  back  into  the  Dark 
And  ancient  night  reclaimed  the  earth. 

Still  all  the  room  was  full  of  her 
So  sweet  and  solemn  and  serene; 

There  was  her  footstool  .  .  .  here,  her  chair 
A  book  with  hasty  mark  between  .  .  . 

A  fugitive  pin  dropped  from  her  hair.  .  .  . 

Was  that  her  hand  against  the  door 
Or  the  wind  grappling  with  the  rain  ? 

Was  that  her  face  that  glimmered  white 
A  moment,  at  the  rattling  pane, 
And  then  drew  back  into  the  night? 


CI403 


HAUNTED 


Y 


OU'LL  hear  my  footsteps  in  the  rain, 
And  when  the  wind  shakes  at  the  door 
You'll  think  that  it's  my  eager  hand; 
And  when  the  fire  grows  bright  at  dusk 

You'll  feel  me  sitting  in  the  chair 
Just  as  I  used  to  do,  of  old  .  .  . 
And  you'll  not  dare  to  turn  your  head 
For  fear  you'll  see  me  sitting  there.  .  .  . 

And  you  will  start  up  in  the  night 
Dreaming  that  you  have  heard  my  voice. 


ADAM,  TO  EVE 


i 


WAS  a  fool  who  did  not  know 
God's  pathways  were  of  pearl,  - 
Why  did  you  fill  me  with  conceit 
Of  stolen  apples,  girl  ? 


£142  3 


YOUR  ABSENCE 

A  TOSS  about  in  bed  and  cannot  sleep; 

I  feel  as  if  my  hands  were  gloved  with  fire; 
My  heavy  pulses  roar  along  my  veins  .  .  . 

I  cannot  sleep  because  of  my  desire. 

The  clock  strikes  on  and  on  ...  I  stare  awake; 
^  Your  lovely  name  a  thousand  times  I  say: 
Then  comes  a  grey  ghost  to  the  window  pane.  .  . 
I  think  it  is  the  thing  that  men  call  "day." 


YOUR  HANDKERCHIEF 


Y 


OU  left  your  handkerchief  behind, 
The  perfume  of  your  favorite  flower 
Was  on  it,  —  as  a  sudden  wind 
Carries  the  soft  scents  of  a  bower 

A  league  away  —  it  brought  to  me 
The  incense  of  your  skin,  your  kind 

Young  eyes  that  smiled  so  trustfully  . 
You  left  your  handkerchief  behind. 


CI443 


THE  TRYST 


.ND  have  you  found  another  lover? 
And  shall  I  kiss  those  lips  no  more 
That  were  as  sweet  as  dripping  honey 
From  the  hive's  golden  core? 

And  shall  I  wait  for  you  no  longer 

Beneath  the  white,  cloud-drifting  moon 

And  feel  an  hour  too  late,  without  you,  — 
Arrived  an  hour  too  soon  ? 

Not  yet!     Not  yet!  .  .  .  we  are  discovered!  .  . 

I  swear  by  all  the  night  above 
Til  never  love  another  woman 

If  you  have  failed  me,  love! 

You  come!  .  .  .  Life's  miracle  has  happened 
Again!  .  .  .  O,  girl  so  white  and  pure 

Why  is  it  love  is  most  uncertain 
When  it  is  most  secure? 


DREAMS 


kJOME  say  that  dreams  they  come  of  God, 

I  know  that  this  is  true, 
Because  the  good  God  sends  a  dream 

Each  night,  of  you. 

I  meet  you  in  a  far,  green  place 

Whenas  I  fall  asleep,  - 
We  linger  all  night  in  a  bower 

Where  leaves  are  deep, 

And,  till  the  blushing  of  the  dawn, 

I  am  complete  in  you.  .  .  . 
Some  say  that  dreams  they  come  of  God: 

I  know  that  it  is  true. 


THE  LOVER'S  LIE 


i 


'M  sick  of  your  white  folly 
And  all  your  wanton  ways; 
YouVe  filled  my  nights  with  madness, 
My  life,  with  empty  days; 

I'm  leaving  you  forever, 

I'm  —  what,  you  didn't  hear?  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  was  only  saying 
How  much  I  love  you,  dear! 


CI473 


STRANGE 


T 


IS  strange  that  we  whose  tumults  roll 
Hot  like  lava  from  soul  to  soul, 
Must  some  day  into  silence  go 
And  lie  as  calm  as  moonlit  snow, 
With  no  more  beating  of  the  heart, 
In  a  narrow  grave,  .  .  .  apart! 


THE  LEAFLESS  BOUGH 


QIN< 


TCE  you  have  gone  away  from  me 
My  very  life  has  grown 
Bare  as  a  leafless  bough  from  which 
A  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 

A  leafless  bough  in  a  windy  sky 

Without  one  hint  of  green  : 
But  through  the  barren  twigs  of  it 

The  clouds  themselves  are  seen. 


DISSIPATION 


i 


CLIMBED  and  climbed  the  windy  stair. 
A  yellow  light  slanted  in  the  gloom. 
The  curtains,  dark  about  the  room, 
Shivered  alive  in  the  rushing  air. 
A  tall,  white  woman  waited  me  there. 
Our  four  lips  burst  forth  into  bloom 
Of  flowering  kisses  .  .  .  when  I  came  down 
Feeling  feeble  of  step  and  grey, 
A  flight  of  birds  hovered  in  air 
And  my  eyes  ached  against  the  day, 
For  it  was  daylight  everywhere. 


i 


THE   FOUNTAIN 


N  a  green  garden  of  delight 
A  hidden  fountain  played  all  night, 
A  grey  and  moving  ghost  of  sound 
That  floated  over  phantom  ground, 
Now  near,  now  far,  as  the  wind  blew. 
The  fountain  was  my  love  for  you; 
The  wind,  your  moods  as  light  as  air; 
The  black  night  was  my  love's  despair. 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 


TH 


[E  wind  will  blow  above  when  I  am  dead, 
The  sun  take  dusk,  and  the  great  dawn  flare  red; 
The  trees  will  sway  above  when  I  am  dead, 
And  Time's  mad  chariot  whirl,  forever  sped; 

While  I  drop  back  to  that  from  which  I  came 
Men  will  be  seared  with  the  brief  whip  and    flame 
Of  pitiless  life  —  but,  let  two  lovers  pass 
And  I'll  forget,  and  sing  beneath  the  grass. 


A  CHANT  OF  DEAD  LOVERS 


N. 


OW  silence  and  mysterious  death  are  ours 
And  over  us  perennial  growths  of  flowers 
Come  and  depart,  hear  what  we  lovers  say 
Who  are  dead  and  perished,  having  loved  our  day 
Death  has  not  made  the  memory  of  one  kiss 
Diminish  its  least  heritage  of  bliss; 
Decay,  with  all  its  strength,  has  not  withdrawn 
The  memory  of  our  first  love's  shy,  sweet  dawn, 
The  soft  reluctant  hand  that  still  would  stay, 
The  poignant,  perfect  loves  of  yesterday. 
As  for  the  Bitter  Ones  who  lie  here  stark, 
Loveless  in  life,  now  wrapped  in  loveless  Dark,  — 
We  pity  them  who  were  dead,  alive  —  and,  dead, 
Are  by  no  least  love's  memory  comforted. 


NO  REFUGE 


o 


FOR  a  refuge 
In  some  remote  quiet, 
Love  is  a  madness, 
Dear  I  a-by  it  ... 

But,  in  remote  quiet, 

I'd  hear  my  blood  beating 
In  pitiful  riot 

Like  armies  retreating. 


c  154:1 


THE  MIRRORED  VENUS 


V 


ENUS  lived  of  old  in  Cyprus 
With  soft  roses  in  her  hair,  — 
All  her  house  was  full  of  mirrors 
Everywhere, 

Mirrors  with  a  thousand  motions 
When  she  went  her  rosy  ways.  . 

Full  of  motions  all  her  dawns  and 
Shadowy  days. 

Venus  lived  in  every  mirror 

Every  way  she  turned  her  head : 

Duplicate  innumerably 
Her  bright  tread, 

Duplicate  innumerably 

Hands  and  arms  and  hair,  — 

Venus  saw  her  beauty  only 
Everywhere.  ... 

O,  the  vain  and  barren  beauty,  — 
Every  worshipper  that  came 

Multiplied  into  a  thousand, 
Each  the  same; 

And  the  little  moon  that  lingered 
On  its  back  across  a  cloud 

Duplicated  silver  crescents 
In  a  crowd.  .  .  . 


THE  MIRRORED  VENUS 

Broken  are  the  many  mirrors, 
Gone  forever  are  the  days, 

Dark  the  altar  that  was  many 
With  one  blaze, 

Gone  the  bright,  reflected  laughter 
That  was  Music's  self  a  stir,  — 

Yet  are  memories  immortal 
Left  of  Her, 

And  in  every  woman  walking 
Loveward,  does  each  lover  meet 

Droop  of  low,  immortal  eyelids, 
Flow  of  feet 

Echoing  on  eternal  errands 

Drawn  by  love's  compulsive  will 

And  The  Venus  Of  the  Mirrors 
Thralls  him  still! 


CI563 


\C1S4763 


m  •.-'.••.••..: 


